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Triangula ting peace 

Bruce M. Russett, John R. Onea 



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Manufactured exclusively from the GREAT NATURAL CARBON PIGMENTS of 

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VOL. Ill APRIL, 1906 NO. l! 


By Governor Taylor 3637(>4 



. H 1 90 7 L 

I saw a man pile mountains to the skies, up wllkJll lie uliui&Wl I6wards 

fame's alluring heights, and I saw his coffers bulging with bonds and stocks 
and stacks of gold and precious stones. I saw him unfold the columned in- 
ventory of his fabulous wealth and lave and steep his soul in gloating contem- 
plation. I heard the clamor of the crowded streets and the shouts and plaudits 
of the fawning throng as he passed proudly by, and I saw him pass on and 
up towards the zenith of renown and seek his place among the great, supremely 
satisfied with himself, finding consolation in the thought that "envy assails 
the noblest; the winds howl about the highest peaks." 

And then I saw him look for a moment into his own soul and blanch in 
affrighted terror at the black stain that sin had made, and I saw a cloud of 
remorse settle upon his brow and the writhing twinge of sore regret wrench 
it into frowns, and I heard his heart cry its. anguish, V©K that'l had 
risen to this height by fairer means !" • /■ \'.. v '* . J ' 

Modern business method is but another name for : i^ak scheming, where- 
in the strong take from the weak and the sly rob the unw&iyl. The-commercial 
seas are dotted with pirate craft and the crews of adv^nf uteri Sail- under the 
black flag. Men are out after their neighbors' goods, and it has come to be 
a part of the business game to get the best of every deal. So universal is the 
practice in the busier marts that sometimes honest men are driven to protect 
themselves by similar means, and thus the entire lump is leavened with ava- 
rice, the subtle poison of the soul. 

"A fortune — make a fortune; by honest means if you can; if not, by any 
means make a fortune," advised Horace; and "rare Ben Jonson" urged, "Get 
money; still get money, boy; no matter by what means." The satire of the 
ancients is become the philosophy of the moderns. The fertile mind of a Du- 
mas could imagine no legitimate means by which Monte Cristo could accumu- 

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late so great a fortune and was compelled to have him find it, but modern 
method finds actual ways to build them in a day without the shedding of one 
drop of sweat or a single blister of the palm. 

But lo ! when Sir Croesus has gotten it all and sent his victims about their 
business, he hugs himself and turns to revel in its luxurious pleasures to find 
the joy of its spending bittered to gall by the memory of the dirty means of 
its getting, and he laments sorrowfully that he did not give his fellow man a 
square deal. For a time, and while he is gorging his greed, perhaps "the 
jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that honor feels;" but there comes a time 
when conscience demands a reckoning and he realizes how utterly worse 
than poor he is since that for which he sold his soul has only served to 
poison it. 

The man who pitches his life to the tone of his sordid lusts and believes 
that "money is to be sought for first of all; virtue after wealth — " will 
find "the love of pelf increases with the pelf," and that he has postponed 
the better purpose to the viler one that makes virtue unattainable after the 
soul has corroded itself with avarice. He who swaps his virtue off for wealth 
may find too late he can never rue. 

There is but one right road to wealth and he who travels it must wade 
his own sweat. Economy] is the poor man's mint. He who essays another 
route than this or strays into luring paths where richer fruits tempt him into 
devious ways, soon finds his feet on slippery places where he must perforce 
make choice of questionable means to prop and stay him up, when honor 
begins to lag for a rendezvous with lust, and he pays the price of success with 
his own virtue. 

The man who lives in a cabin and hath his soul clean, though he may 
live pn jbfeQkS Vnd'< steep .$& a pallet of rags, yet is he a prince and a million- 
aire infinitely to be epviecf above the rich man who coins his gold out of the 
heart's blood *of , ij» - ftilfrws. I have undiminished faith in my fellows, but I 
would dfecijf tius.'jtdWing curse of greed and persuade all men to follow this 
new-named golden rule df life, a square deal and an equal chance. 


Morning was about to break on the old plantation when the dominecker 
rooster in the apple tree over behind the smokehouse unsheathed his head 
from 'neath his wing and started fowldom a-clucking with his shrill "Cock- 
a-doodle-doo-o-o!" Fifteen minutes to a second before the first streak of 
dawn silhouetted the ghostly hilltops against the murky sky, the back door of 

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the mansion was drawn a foot ajar, the unkempt head of 01' Marse was thrust 
into the dying night, and a mighty voice as of many thunders broke the brood- 
ing silence: 


And Peter came forth. 

Peter was the "head-nigger," the prime minister of the overseer, and in 
a minute after the clarion voice yanked him from his bunk he was spreading 
the call down the line until the entire negro quarter was astir and every woolly 
head emerged from its lair. The smoke began to curl from the cabin stacks, 
the colts began to neigh, the cattle to low, the turkeys to gobble, the ducks 
to quack, and the guinea-cock on the comb of the barn gave an ear-burst- 
ing squawk that startled the old blue jack down in the staked-and-ridered lot 
below the mule sheds, and he opened up his vast, expanding lungs and gave 
vent to a long-drawn bray that sawed its way up through the lingering night 
vapors into the supernal ether, that jarred the fountains of light and cracked 
day wide open. 

"De feedin's dun dun," and while the mules were munching the darkies 
were eating; and then the trace-chains began to jingle, and the plow-gear to 
cry, and the darkies to rally and jibe one another, and the slip-gaps were let 
down and the squads went this way and that into the wide-spreading bottoms. 
Off down to the right the eye beheld a fertile vision. The river swept by two 
hundred yards to the left of the mansion, and making a broad, sweeping pa- 
rabola, bent back upon its course two hundred yards to the right of the mansion 
— four miles to make as many hundred yards — and in the great Turkey Bend 
lay the fertile fields with their long rows stretching into the distance until 
they seemed to come together, the meadows spotting the landscape like green 
jewels, the rivulets winding through fringes of cane and young cottonwood, 
with the circling background of sycamore, beech and ash that marked the 
course of the smooth-flowing river. 

Just under the eye, nearest, lay the double rows of whitewashed negro 
cabins, built in a square, and in the center a long-bending well-sweep creaked. 
Each cabin had its ash-hopper, chicken pens, truck patch and sunflowers, 
and its bevy of slick little pickaninnies playing, half-naked, in the sunshine. 
Back farther lay the great gable-ended barn, with its wide-open loft door 
looking like a monster's mouth dripping long-hanging wisps of hay ; the horse 
stalls underneath, the long rows of mule and cattle-sheds flanking, all smell- 
ing horsey and hayey; the buggy houses where the chickens roosted, the row 
of corncribs with their drooping doors on wooden hinges that ne'er felt grease, 
and fastened with a slick oak pin stuck into an auger-hole bored slantwise in 
the facing; and below stood long rows of fodder stacks and hayricks, where 

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the fowls scratched and wallowed and cackled and laid; and still farther on 
the jack-lots and wide pastures leaning off into the dense woodland, and over 
in the turn-rows the mules were hitched to the plows and the business of the 
old plantation was at full tide with the darkies a-singing. 


A lamentable result of modern development and business evolution is 
its tendency to break up families and homes. Opportunity beckons from so 
many directions and inducements are so diverse that our boys and girls spread 
their wings early and fly away to the four winds and scatter themselves over 
the earth. There is some little mitigation found in the facilities of travel which 
may afford frequent visits home, but the results, however seemingly beneficial, do 
not compensate for the destruction of the family altars, the suspension of home 
influences and the severing of sacred affections. They all go with the pur- 
pose, declared or harbored, of coming back, but alas, how few of them ever 
realize that purpose! They are gone permanently and even the home visits 
grow farther and farther apart, until the home tie is completely severed. I 
cannot bring myself to believe that God intended it thus, and if this is a legiti- 
mate consequence of latter-day development, then there is a serious flaw some- 
where in it. Aside from the wrench to the affections, society will surely suffer 
in the suspension of home training and teaching. The home has been divinely 
consecrated to the formation of character, and nowhere else can the twig be 
properly bent. It needs no demonstration to prove that the life and charac- 
ter of the child suffer permanent injury and that society is damaged by the 
infliction of an injurious influence if that child is removed from the sacred en- 
vironments of home before its character is formed and strengthened to with- 
stand temptations and meet responsibilities. It is one of the most deplorable 
tendencies of the times, and yet it is receiving scarcely a suggestion that will 
tend to ameliorate it. 

Obviously, the most effective means of lessening the distressing tendency 
will be to bring the opportunities and inducements nearer home. The indus- 
trial development that is fast carrying the South to the front, as rich as it seems 
in promise of material things, will be even yet richer in blessings to the people 
in supplying adequate opportunities to their children. These pages have al- 
ready suggested the imperative importance of technological schools in the 
South with unlimited facilities and scope. This is peculiarly an age of special- 
ists. There are too many things to learn for one man to attempt them all, or 
even a few, and they are dividing up the work., each according to his aptitudes 
and genius, and thus, by concentration of brain and energy, they are getting 

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deeper into the mysteries of nature and science and accomplishing greater 
results. The thing is now to find one's aptitudes and fit them where they 
belong. It is found more profitable to find the work for which the man is 
fitted than to try to make an unfit man fit a work. In these days of individual 
adjustment if the youth looks about him and fails to find the place that meets 
his longings and genius, he must of necessity migrate. He cannot afford to 
enter the race handicapped with inadaptability against others who have found 
their calling. If the South fails to provide "the widest range for her boys and 
girls to find their natural vocations, it forces them either to seek elsewhere or 
take a lower plane than they deserve. 

If there were no other consideration, it ought to be sufficient to impel the 
Southern States, every one of them, to hasten to provide the fullest possible 
opportunities for high technological training for the influence it will have in 
keeping our sons at home. Our industries must be conducted by skilled hands, 
and if we do not impart the skill to our own boys, then others must do the 
work and ours take subordinate place. I plead for it, however, upon the 
higher ground of home-love, of unbroken family altars, of virtue and affection 
and all the sacred ties of kinship. 


To the man who lives to eat the science of gastronomy is a romance and 
the bill of fare a poem. The chimes of the dinner bell are more melodious than 
the music of the spheres, and the rattle of dishes is a concord of sweet sounds. 
The gilded hall, with its silver plate and immaculate linen* is the ante-chamber 
of Paradise, and the aroma of smoking cuisine is sweeter than a scented breath 
of June. As the war-horse sniffs the battle from afar, and as the wild boar 
whets his tusk for the fray, so the fat man sniffs and whets for the festive board. 
The horizon of his dreams is full of canvas-backs and blue- wings; its waters 
swarm with pompano and terrapin, and its landscape is blatant with fat and 
juicy flocks. His countenance is a sunrise of savory sentiment and his laugh- 
ter is like the blubbering music of boiling mutton. O ladies, cherish him 
and nourish him, and thus perpetuate his heavenly temper! 

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stars looked down, and the nightingale 
sang. And wherever he wooed her I 
think the grazing herds left sloping 
hill and peaceful vale to listen to the 
wooing, and thence themselves de- 
parted in pairs. The coveys heard it 
and mated in the fields; the quail 
wooed his love in the wheat; the robin 
whistled to his love in the glen: 

"The lark was so brimfull of gladness and love, 
The green fields below him-the blue sky above, 
That he sang, and he sang, and forever sang he : 
I love my Cove, and my Love loves me. 

fier cocoanut oaicony lor tne 
coming of her "Romeo," and thus 
plaintively sang: 

[Sung to the air of My Sweetheart'! the Han in the 


"My sweetheart's the lovely baboon, 
I'm going to marry him soon ; 
'Twould fill me with joy 
Just to kiss the dear boy, 
For his charms and his beauty 
No power can destroy." 

"I'll sit in the light of the moon, 
And sing to my darling baboon, 
When I'm safe by his side 
And he calls me his bride; 
Oh ! my Angel, my precious baboon ! " 

. u..uut«j r-~ 

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By Curtis Hidden Page 

Nicolette has left her chamber, 
Down the wall she knew to clamber 

(Such her love for Aucassin!) 
For at last the guardsmen sleep, 
While their watch the fairies keep, 

Waking none with all their din. 

In the fragrant garden-closes 
Where she passes, all the roses 

Throw her sweets, and worship her; 
Hare-bells bow beneath her tread, 
Then as quickly lift the head, 

With their eyes to follow her. 

All the dewdrops in the grasses 
Leap aside just where she passes 

Sparkling with their love of her; 
"Place for Nicolette," they say; 
"Speed her, speed her on her way, 

Aucassin awaiteth her/" 

See her step, like robin's flutter! 
Oh! the whiteness none can utter 

Of her flesh so fair and sweet; 
Daisies that her sandals catch 
With such snow-bloom dare not match — 

Black they seem against her feet! 

Fairest is she of fair creatures; 
Fine and slender are her features, 

And her smile like dawning day. 
Place for Nicolette the fair, 
Nicolette the debonair e! 

Speed her, speed her on her way! 

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From a portrait painted at the White House during her father'* 



By Daisy Fitzhugh Ayres 

Was there ever a social section in 
the universe that didn't particularly 
vaunt itself upon the pulchritude of 
its womenkind? 

"Breathes there a man with soul so dead, 
Who never to himself hath said," 

"the women in my country are by 
long odds the winners of the world?" 
Which is, doubtless, meet and right, 
and exactly as it ought to be. Likely 
the very Mlipinos, and the gallants of 
the South Sea Islands, claim the same 
distinction for their sweethearts and 

wives. We are all entitled to our 
hereditary prejudices, to our personaf 
traditions, and if we like any particu- 
lar type of beauty, that's because 
that's exactly the kind of beauty that 
we like, to paraphrase Mr. Lincoln 
a little bit. 

Yet, with the limitless diversity of 
standard regarding the charm femi- 
nine, and the ingredients that go to 
constitute the same, there's a sneak- 
ing unanimity of opinion, in one 
respect, under the left waistcoat pocket 
of the masculine population of Ameri- 

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Copyright. CHneditut, Washington 

Wife of the German Ambawador 

Wife of the first Norwegian Minister to the United Statee 

ca. The ayes have it, 
whether expressed or un- 
derstood, that whatever her 
limitations or provincial- 
isms in individual cases — 
and these only heighten 
their seductions — the wom- 
en that ! blossom in the 
Southern States, generically 
speaking,are incontrvertibly 
creatures of dynamic lure. 

Even the old world finds 
the force of that. Titles 
and coronets are strewn lav- 
ishly at the pretty little 
feet of the Southern girl. 
Courts ring with her con- 
quests, and transplanted no- 
bility, as evidenced among 
the diplomatic corps at our 
nation's capital, award her 
the palm, in many in- 
stances, of superior attrac- 

Influential both diplo- 
matically and, unofficially, 
in Washington society, is 
the fair Southern woman, 
with her sympathy, grace 
and infinite tact. She is a 
politician, a statesman, a 
puller of wires, simply by 
being herself. 

Decidedly the most fas- 
cinating woman in the en- 
tire corps diplomatique, the 
queen regnant of the inner- 
most circles of the national 
court, is the Baroness Speck 
von Sternberg, the pictur- 
esque young wife of the Ger- 
man Ambassador, once Lil- 
ian Langham, of Louis- 
ville. The "Freifrau" von 
Sternberg's hold over her 
neighbors lies more in her 
soft magnetism than in 
strictly technical beauty, 
though her opulence of 
rust-red hair, her ivory 
skin, her appealing sweet- 
ness of expression are 
physical assets a plenty. 
She has the prettiest clothes 
in the country and the most 
radiant gems. Her entour- 
age is one of royal state. 

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The German Embassy, where this 
lovely daughter of Dixie reigns, is 
palatially appointed. Treasures from 
the Baron's ancestral castles are scat- 
tered prodigally. The great ball room 
is a miracle in white. The salon, fur- 
nished in ivory, has its walls hung in 
pale green brocade. The mighty 
throne of a Chinese emperor occupies 
the hall. Carven angels of mediaeval 

berg will dispose of the property and 
erect on a suitable suburban site, an 
exact reproduction of Sans Souci, to 
which Emperor Wilhelm will con- 
tribute priceless art treasures. 

The Vicomtesse de Faramond, of 
the French legation, formerly Miss Ivy 
Langham, of Louisville, is a younger 
sister of the Baroness von Sternberg, 
and almost her physical counterpart. 


workmanship decorate the archway 
between two rooms, while the Ambas- 
sador's collection of ceramics, con- 
sidered the best in America, is amply 
and suitably displayed. The favorite 
hospitality of the young baroness is 
a series of evening receptions to a 
privileged few, to which the guests 
are not bidden till ten o'clock. Al- 
though the German Embassy now 
ranks among the handsomest at our 
capital it is s^id thjtt B^roji von Stern- 

The two charming sisters are usually 
seen together. 

A reigning Washington beauty of 
chic and magnetism, is the handsome 
young wife of the Belgian minister, 
the Baroness Moncheur. The pretty 
Southerner met her fate during her 
residence in Mexico, to which country 
her father, the Hon. Powell Clayton, 
of Arkansas, was United States Min- 
ister. Miss Catherine Clayton, the 
younger sister of the Baroness, who 

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spends most of her time at the Belgian 
legation, is a prominent diplomatic 
belle, with the same severely classic 
contour of face that characterizes her 
distinguished sister. Both are noted 
for the exquisite elegance of their 

Of Tennessee heredity — her father 

of Secretary of the joint kingdoms to 
that of the first minister from Norway 
as an independent sovereignty. The 
headquarters of the Norwegian lega- 
tion are at the New Willard Hotel, 
where Madame Hauge holds sumptu- 
ous sway. She was much admired 
last winter, as a bride, when her hus- 

President Southern Relief Society 

was of the aristocratic old Todd family 
of Nashville— is Madame Christian 
Hauge, n£e Todd, later Mrs. Frederick 
Joy, of Louisville, the bride of less 
than two years of the Envoy Ex- 
traordinary and Minister Plenipoten- 
tiary from Norway to this country. 
The recent revolution in Norway and 
Sweden, and the separation, govern- 
mentally, of the two countries, has 
advanced M. Hauge from the position 

band presented her at court at Stock- 

The most notable Southern woman 
surviving the classic old regime, is that 
yet brilliant daughter of a President, 
Mrs. Letitia Tyler Semple, who ruled 
the White House when her father, 
John Tyler, of Virginia, the tenth 
chief executive of the nation, held 
sway there. Her mother was an 
invalid. Mrs. Semple, now eighty-six 

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years old, mentally virile and up to 
the minute in political affairs, though 
almost totally blind, is the pet and ad- 

at the White House, where she once 
queened it graciously. Mrs. Grant, 
Mrs. Hayes and Mrs. McKinley were 


miration of that noble, philanthropic 
institution founded for Southern gen- 
tlewomen by the late W. W. Corcoran, 
the Louise Home. Mrs. Semple is the 
honor guest of all Presidential fp-mijies 

particularly close friends of hers. The 
illustration shows Mrs. Semple at 
eighteen, painted on the southern 
portico of the White House. 

ponuq^nt ^mong the Southern worn- 

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en at the nation's capital, is that 
worthy daughter of a distinguished 
sire, Miss Nannie Randolph Heth, only 
daughter of that brilliant cavalry 
leader of the Confederacy, Gen. Harry 
Heth. Miss Heth, a woman of grace 
and patrician beauty, is notable in 
social and philanthropic work. As 
the new president of the Southern 
Relief Society in the District of Co- 

are the center of an aristocratic salon 
in their delightful Southern home, 
crowded with priceless ancestral Rev- 
olutionary relics. 

Mrs. Booker Robinson, of Louisville, 
formerly Miss Elise Bissell, golden- 
haired, chic and quick in epigram, is 
one of the loveliest of the younger 
women at the nation's capital. 

Mrs. Clarence D. Van Duzer, though 

Copyright. Clintdirut, Washington 


lumbia, an organization established 
years ago by her capable mother, Miss 
Heth is a record-breaker in effective- 
ness and grace. The Southern Relief 
Ball, at which she presided at the New 
Willard Hotel in Washington, in a 
Parisian costume and diamonds that 
once were Martha Washington's, was 
among the most distinguished affairs 
of 1906. Miss Heth and her mother^ 

wife of the congressman-at-large from 
Nevada, is a bluegrass beauty, whose 
personal charms make her one of 
the most notable women in Wash- 

Mrs. Clarence Lebus is another star 

beauty of Kentucky, whose social 

success in Washington this winter 

entitles her to rank with the ruling 

* residents. 

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"I ah&U oUip bar," cried yoonf UrU. 
"Though I eUap her for my doom!" 

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of golden hair 


hook the leaves 

n space. 

sweetness filled 

nted place. 

e dryad whispered, 
mong the dead?" 

"Love is sweet/' 
>lden head. 
:>rpse's eye, 

le to Athelstane, 

foam and blood, 
th a weight 
ack, and yet 

loon before 

i ncy iuuiiu uic ui'yad's tree, 
And loosed the young, dead hands that clung 

Around it, icily. 
But oh, it seemed that Urla's lips 

Were smiling happilyl 

The dryad's buds and blossoms all 
Were withered, brown and sere. 

But overhead the stars were as 
Soft petals, floating near. 

Above the silver moon looked down 
And glistened, like a tear. 

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By Gilson Willets 

not surrounded by a gilt 
the only "artist." Statues 
is pictures ; and the sculptor 
le mixer of colors. Let us, 
ulpture its proper dignity 

and sectional influence, 
lality. Sculpture is truth 

is, mere glamour. Sculp- 
ete — not a mere suggestion 
irface, as painting is. The 
s the evanescence of Nature 

years ago art was at 
such low ebb in the 
United States that sculp- 
tors, as well as painters, 
were regarded as non- 
producers, unworthy of 
place in the great scheme 
of the country's prog- 

ress. What a change in 
American sentiment 
since those days! We 
have learned that sculp- 
ture is to art what poetry 
is to literature. We 
know now that sculpture 
is the crystallized epito- 
me of thought, and 
that, in its material em- 
bodiment, sculpture is 
the epic architecture of 
a country. Hence, sculpture now has a recognized 
place among the uplifting forces of the nation. 
To-day, indeed, American sculptors as a body exer- 
cise considerable influence on public taste — an in- 
fluence as great as that of architects, if not of 
painters and poets. 

In a short forty years, then, the public has devel- 
oped a love for the Beautiful, of which sculpture is 
a part — the part, in fact, that is easiest understood 
by the people. How does the public indulge this 
love of the Beautiful? How but by authorizing 

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its legislatures and its Congress 
to appropriate large sums of 
money for the purchase of the 
Beautiful, including, of course, 
the work of sculptors? Thus 
fine art in stone and bronze, no 
less than industrial art, has in 
our country become a source of 
wealth, and sculptors as well as 
painters are now classed as pro- 
ducers, their profession ranking 
as high as in European countries. 
In this recognition of the 
worth of sculpture, in this devel- 
opment of love for the Beautiful 
in its most absolute sense, in 
this encouragement of the sculp- 
tor through purchase of his work 
by and for the people, the South 
has not been behind other parts 
of the country. Indeed, it is a 
question if the South, in pro- 
portion to population and wealth, 
cannot show more monuments 
than the richer and more popu- 
lous East. 

And one of the sculptors who 
has most benefited by the South's 
love of art as expressed in 
statuary, is Charles Henry Nie- 
haus. Mr. Niehaus, a native of 
Cincinnati, has his home in New 
York, but his heart is in the 
South, where are so many of his 
best works, and where for gen- 
erations to come that work of 
his will stand as the Southern 
people's marble and bronze ap- 
preciation of their great men 
and ideals. 

Some seventeen of these Nie- 
haus monuments, statues, "re- 
liefs," fountains and busts, are 
reproduced in pictures on these 
pages. Washington, Memphis, 
Cincinnati and St. Louis own 
many of the Niehaus statues, 
while Frankfort is to have the 
Goebel statue upon which Mr. 
Niehaus was at work when I 
visited him recently in his New 
\ York studio. 

j In Washington there is the 
elaborate Samuel Hahnemann 

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monument — of granite, bronze 
and mosaic, having a heroic 
figure of Hahnemann and four 
illustrative panels and many 
decorative symbols — unveiled 
in 1900. Twenty-four models 
were submitted in compe- 
tition for the prizes offered in 
connection with this monu- 
ment. Sculptors in seven 
American cities, and in Paris, 
Rome and Florence, were rep- 
resented in this competition, 
yet to the American sculptor, 
Mr. Niehaus, fell the prize. 
This monument is said to be 
Niehaus' finest work, equalled 
by few others in this country. 
And of this work, in "Ameri- 
can Masters of Sculpture/ ' it 
is further said: "The expres- 
sion of benign dignity in the 
head flows through the whole 
length of the figure, which is 
disposed in lines that are as 
suave as they are noble. It 
has all the grandeur of monu- 
mental repose. Among mod- 
ern statues few make so serious 
an impression. One can trace 
here the effect of the sculptor's 
close study of the antique. 
Freedom, force and sensitive- 
ness extend to the handling 
of the drapery, in which every 
fold has a grace of naturalness 
and a value of expression." 

In Memphis, unveiled only 
last year, is Niehaus' heroic 
equestrian monument of 
General Forrest, with hand- 
some esplanade and Greek 
seats, all the architectural 
work being of Tennessee 
marble from quarries near the 
birthplace of the famous 
cavalryman. The incidental 
story of this Forrest statue 
is rather interesting. In the 
spring of 1904 the huge model 
was sent to the Maison 
Gruet, bronze founders, in 
Paris. The statue in bronze 
was delivered' to the sculptor 

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in Paris in December. Then, owing 
to its height, it was found impossible 
for it to go to the seaport by rail, so 
it was floated down the Seine on a 
barge to Havre. On its arrival in 

insufficient height blocked its way 
and it was sidetracked. It took the 
shipping agents, the Memphis Com- 
mittee, the sculptor and the press of 
the South to contrive a way to get 


the'. United States the same difficulty 
presented itself, but after weeks of 
delay the Seaboard Air Line accepted 
it. It was sent by sea to Savannah, 
thence to Atlanta, thence on its 
journey to Memphis. Some distance 
from Atlanta, however, bridges of 

that big statue past the low bridges. 
At last a wrecking company was 
engaged to go ahead of the statue 
and lift the bridges. And so finally 
the Forrest statue came into Mem- 
phis on the Birmingham railroad, the 
road General Forrest himself had built. 

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In the library at Cin- groups, "Wounded Sol- 
cinnati is a fine example dier" and "Wounded 
of Mr. Niehaus' relief Sailor," and "Washing- 
work — "Homer reciting ton Crossing the Dela- 
the Iliad." The figure ware." Also the "Mo- 
of Homer in full action ses " in the Congressional 
of declamatory inspira- Library at Washington, 
tion — surrounded by the Davis and Lee statues 
poets and maidens — ex- and the bust of Joe Jef- 
presses fully the motif. ferson. 
It is called a composition Mr. Niehaus* prizes 
of decided sculpturesque and honors include a 
value. medal from the Royal 

For the Lee eques- Academy at Munich, 

trian monument, at where he received part 

Richmond, the model of his art education; an 

submitted by Mr. Nie- award at the Chicago 

haus won the $2,000 Exposition, and gold 

first prize. medals at the exposi- 

New York, too, owns tions at Buffalo, Charles- 
some notable examples ton and St. Louis, 
of Mr. Niehaus' work. Besides the works here 
Some years ago the M0SES| THB LAWGIVBR| IN pictured and mentioned, 
Municipal Art Society congressional library, Mr. Niehaus made the 
of this city offered prizes Washington Garfield statue at Cin- 
for designs for drinking cinnati, and the Allen 
fountains for the city streets. In and Garfield statues in the rotunda 
the competition that followed, Mr. of the Capitol at Washington; also 
Niehaus furnished the three designs the "Gibbon" in the Congressional 
reproduced herewith, two of these Library, and the Astor Historical 

being prize winners. For the Dewey 
Arch, erected in New York at the 
time of Dewey's return from Manila, 
Mr. Niehaus executed one of the four 
group features, called "The Triumph- 
ant Return." Other delightful ex- 

Doors for Trinity Church, New York; 
and the statue of Drake erected by 
the Standard Oil Company at Titus- 
vile, Pennsylvania. One of the im- 
portant works upon which this famous 
American sculptor is at present en- 

amples of Mr. Niehaus' work repro- gaged, is the McKinley statue, to 
duced here JJinclude the beautiful be erected at Canton, Ohio. 


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By Charles Hanson Towne 

T AM a dead child's soul 

Come back to earth once more; 
On Easter Day, when glad hearts pray, 

My perfume shall I pour 
From out the dim-lit chancel where 

My Lord I shall adore! 

T AM a young child's heart, 

(A child who died last night), 

And God has called me back again 
Into the world's great light; 

And now I live once more for Him, 
And blossom in His sight. 

TTIS Eastertide I know, 

His resurrection day, 
And on His .holy altar now, 

Lo! silently I say 
Those childish prayers that one I loved 

Taught me so well to pray ! 


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By Martha McCulloch-Williams 

LTHOUGH the town 
I clock had struck 

midnight/nearly the 
whole population of 
Pimlico town 
thronged its strag- 
gling streets. The 
streets ran every 
way, now straight, 
now zigzag, again 
_ with the sinuous di- 

rectness of their 
footpath originals, but all brought up 
at last round about the public square. 
There was a drinking fountain in the 
square, the water of it being led in 
from a bold spring in the hills miles 
away. One of Pimlico's sons who had 
made millions in the stock market 
was answerable for the fountain. 
Collective Pimlico was reasonably 
grateful to him, but the liveliest senti- 
ment lurked in the breasts of the 
three saloon keepers who occupied 
as many corners of the square. The 
courthouse filled the fourth corner. 
Thus it is easily seen that whoever 
came to town had a reasonable excuse 
for haunting the square. Men com- 
ing to water their horses at the foun- 
tain, or bathe their own understand- 
ings in floods of legal eloquence, were 
morally certain to slake more material 
thirsts across the bars. 

For three days Pimlico had been 
bursting with a State convention at 
deadlock over the nomination of a 
governor. Why Pimlico had been 
chosen as the convention town, was„ 
upon the surface, a mystery. The 
surface explanation, which nobody 
believed, was that in the choice lay a 
pretty compliment to the Honorable 
Byrd Doswell, one of the two leading 
aspirants to the governorship. The 
gentlemen most opposed to him stoutly 

maintained that since he lived in the 
town they had thought it would be a 
fine thing to have him triumph there — 
if he was to triumph at all. But 
everybody felt that the real reason, 
while more occult, was not, after all, so 
far to seek. Three hundred-odd men 
would not come together, in sweltering 
weather, in a place that had scant 
accommodation for half that number, 
unless something momentous hung 
in the balance. Back of the innocent 
party segregations of an opening can- 
vass, there loomed tremendous ques- 
tions of finance. The State debt, 
which alone would be openly touched 
on, was the very least of them. Since 
the State had felt heavily the harrows 
of Reconstruction, though the tiebt 
was unquestionably a legal obligation, 
there was easily the largest question 
as to whether it was equitably bind- 
ing — at least seven-eighths of it having 
been piled up when the bulk of tax- 
payers had no voice whatever in the 

Here was a nice occasion for trim- 
ming. Doswell and Massey, his chief 
competitor, had been speaking oracles 
over it this last half year. Listeners 
had interpreted the oracles each to 
suit his own special bent ; all, that is, 
save the few who had inside knowl- 
edge. They understood as by intui- 
tion that the paltry millions of the 
debt but served as a stalking horse 
for very much bigger things. Inter- 
ests, as yet discreetly in the back- 
ground, would find it money in pocket 
to buy and burn the State bonds in 
dispute, if thereby they could secure 
legislative good-will toward certain 
projected combinations of world-wide 
import. It would be best to have 
the legislative action upon the initia- 
tive and advice of the governor — 

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hence the vital importance of owning 
him. Commonly that functionary was 
little more than a lay figure — with 
some power of strictly partisan ap- 
pointment. This particular Governor, 
it was well understood by those who 
pulled the strings, might go much 
higher in public affairs, by showing 
himself to deserve well of the mag- 

Byrd Doswell understood that to a 
nicety. His ambition was, in a crude 
fashion, Napoleonic; further, he was 
madly in love. Catherine Maclyn, his 
sweetheart, was also ambitious, vain 
withal, and full of avid eagerness for 
luxurious spendings. She resetted 
acridly the poverty that had fallen to 
her, solely through public policy. 
Under the old order of things she 
would have inherited a hundred slaves. 
She was glad to be rid of the care of 
them, yet keenly angry at losing the 
money they represented. Byrd Dos- 
well had made love to her before she 
was out of short frocks. At twenty- 
one she was not formally engaged to 
him, although he had courted her fifty 
times at least, and never once had been 
definitely refused. He knew if he won 
the governorship he would likewise win 
her. For his sake, she was holding off 
two other and richer men. But he did 
not delude himself — if he failed she 
would have none of him. She loved 
him after a fashion, but infinitely less 
than she loved herself. 

Besides, Morton Massey, the man 
he feared most politically, was also a 
bachelor, and though accounted strict- 
ly a man's man, shy and susceptible 
at bottom. A big, hulking fellow — 
but with fine brown eyes— Catherine 
had noted them after his joint debate 
with Massey early in the year. He 
had, moreover, a moving background 
of family, social position, and modest 
wealth. Defeated, Catherine would 
not give him a thought — she had no 
vulgar ambition for universal empire 
over men. But for Governor Massey 
she would make pretty and well-bred 
play — particularly if he proved him- 
self extra-amenable to the influences 
that were the sure highway to political 
preferment. Nobody doubted that 
he would be thus amenable. Over and 

over he had proclaimed himself of the 
New South, concerned with material 
advancement, rather than of the Old 
South, with its intangible and im- 
ponderable satisfactions of honor and 

Fate had come near playing Massey 
a scurvy trick upon opening day. 
Throughout it the solid delegations 
from three of his strongest counties 
had been unaccountably missing. 
Word came at last that they were 
wreck-bound ; a freight train, running 
light, ahead of their special, had 
crashed into an open switch, with a 
result of making them miss the Pimlico 
connection by a matter of twelve 
hours. The mass of delegates were 
simply concerned over the news — 
so concerned they carried the motion 
to adjourn with a rush. The leaders, 
outwardly as concerned, laughed grimly 
in private. One said aside to another: 
"D'ye reckon Massey can have turned 
rusty with the old man at the last 
minute? Train wrecks cost a mighty 
heap o' money." 

" Massey 's election might cost more 
— if he got in with the bit in his teeth,' ' 
the other answered guardedly. ' * Still, 
it may have been an accident. Old 
man's nobody's fool. He knows as 
well as we do even a whisper of rail- 
road opposition would stampede the 
convention for Massey and leave Byrd 
Doswell with hardly a corporal's guard. 
If the thing ain't straight goods, just 
what it seems, why, depend on it, 
Massey has made his price — and got 
it. He wouldn't do that before—" 

"I know!" the first speaker inter- 
rupted with a nod, then puckering his 
his brows — "but still I don't under- 

"Why, can't you see through a 
millstone — with a hole in it?" the 
other broke in. "Can't you see that 
this tale of an accident to keep his men 
away, can be whispered about be- 
hind the backs of hands to convince 
the doubting Thomases from Way- 
back and Lickskillet and Gullywash, 
that he's the one and only Simon-pure, 
clear-grit, against-the-railroads-till- 
hell-freezes-over man of the people? 
Of course, the story won't be told 
unless Doswell rims neck and neck — " 

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1 'Which he will do," the puzzled 
one, a country doctor, Reasoner by 
name, interrupted decidedly. Reas- 
oner had yearnings for literature — 
carefully concealed. It was only once 
in a blue moon, when he was safe from 
even the memory of pills and patients, 
he dared to quote his beloved Omar. 
This was one of the times. With 
twinkling eyes he went on: 

"'The Bird of Time has but a little way 
To flutter— and the Bird is on the wing.' 

"Johnson, our Byrd is goin' to fly or 
die this time — take my word for that. 
He's got the feathers, too — yet — dele- 
gates that'll stand by him to the last 
notch. He's just missed the chance 
of his life, by a squirrel's jump. How 
he must hate the two-thirds nile — but 
for that he might have flown spang on 
the top rung of the governor's chair 
to-night, ten minutes after the plat- 
form was read." 

"You agreein'?" Johnson asked 
cautiously. Reasoner only laughed. 
As the two went laggardly down the 
hall in the wake of the crowd he said, 
chuckling hard: "The old man might 
have saved himself his wreck if he 
hadn't been such a good Republican 
he knew nothin' of our Democratic 
two-thirds rule." 

There were two sessions next day. 
Battle royal raged throughout them. 
Ballot followed ballot with the tellers 
monotonously chanting after: "Mas- 
sey,- 153; Doswell, 152; Andrew Jack- 
son Miller, 13; scattering and not 
voting, 17; no election." 

Adjournment came at the end of 
endurance — well towards one o'clock 
in the morning. But neither Massey, 
Doswell, nor their chief lieutenants 
got a wink of sleep before sunrise, so 
keen and bitter were the efforts of 
each side to beat down or break 
through the other's guard. It was 
hardly worth while to dicker with the 
handful of so-called independents — 
their solid votes would not bring 
victory. Notwithstanding, both sides 
made tentative advances to Dr. Reas- 
oner, the unacknowledged chief of the 
malcontents. Ten men would vote 
his way no matter what it might be. 
Doswell men and Massey men alike 

coveted the moral advantage of a 
substantial gain, even though it left 
them far short of their goal. 

Reasoner was impassive, saying 
only : "If it has got to be either Massey 
or Doswell, why, then, this fight for 
the governorship is a matter of small 
choice in rotten apples." The emis- 
saries pretended to go away in great 
dudgeon. At their respective head- 
quarters they laughed. Both the rival 
camps understood Reasoner to hint 
at a. compromise candidate, but no- 
body, as yet, cared to put the under- 
standing in words. 

It was August, with drouth and the 
Dog Star raging. Hence the plan of 
a single session, and at night, upon 
the third day, was doubly welcome. 
It gave time for sleep and rest, and 
still more time for missionary work. 
Excitement, still but throbbing, had 
spread from the convention hall to the 
remotest suburb of Pimlico. The hall 
was at best a stuffy place — the court 
room, where their worships, the county 
justices, sat monthly. It held com- 
fortably something like four hundred 
people. Packed with twice that num- 
ber upon a sweltering night, it ought 
to have melted the most stubborn 
partisan obstinacy. 

No doubt it would have done it in 
a strictly partisan fight — where one 
fights for a semblance of principles 
rather than a man. A man is so 
much easier held by than an abstrac- 
tion. Balloting began at nine o'clock. 
At ten the fifth count was an exact 
echo of the first. Thereafter wild 
scrambles in and out betrayed the 
assembly's consuming thirst. Friend- 
ly enemies paired openly and went 
out arm in arm to drink. Thus 
in succeeding ballots the vote on both 
sides shrank in almost exact propor- 
tion. By midnight the barest quorum 
clung doggedly to their seats. Every- 
body was desperate — the leaders most 
of all. Both sides knew that com- 
promise was inevitable; both also had 
their chosen men of straw, pledged 
to speak only what was given them, 
ready groomed for the race. But 
neither was as yet willing to put for- 
ward his dummy. For deep down at 
the bottom of their hearts lurked an 

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irrational hope that in some miracu- 
lous eleventh-hour fashion, he should 
hear himself acclaimed the chosen 
standard bearer of the sovereign peo- 

Doswell and Massey, sitting out of 
hall, were yet well within earshot. 
Doswell had preempted audaciously 
the County Clerk's office to the right, 
with wide doors opening upon the 
main court room. It was spacious, 
and so airy his henchmen fared much 
better than the Massey crowd, over 
in the room of the Circuit Clerk, which 
had a little door, one window, and 
only three chairs. Massey sat in one 
of the chairs, a big black cigar, un- 
lighted, in his mouth. He spoke little, 
and in a very low voice, but heard 
whatever rose above the burring noise 
of the delegates in hall. Once when 
a telegram of a single word was 
fetched to him, he stood up, glanced 
at it, twisted the paper into a lighter, 
and made a feint of setting fire to his 
cigar. But as the paper flared his 
mind changed — he flung it down, 
stamped it out, and said to his trustiest 
follower: "Ed, go answer that for me 
—just say O. K. — and tell those fellows 
to rush it." 

The friend slid away as noiselessly 
as a shadow. Over Massey's arm he 
had glimpsed the query, " Cloudy ?" 
He knew it meant, translated from 
the campaign cipher: "Do you need 
money? And how much?" Massey 
must be supremely confident to answer 
it as he was doing: "Hold still. Our 
hand wins." It must be he was play- 
ing under and above board. Certainly 
nobody had his full confidence. Cer- 
tainly also, he was in close touch wth 
both the rival railway lines — the Q. 
& M. and the Busy Bee. He had 
fought them both, so vigorously and 
oftentimes so successfully, both made 
a point of retaining him whenever it 
was possible. Latterly he had made 
hosts of friends among the plain 
people by refusing railroad money, 
and taking up the cases of poor folk 
who had sufficed damages. Threats 
of appeal did not move him in the 
least, not even when the court costs 
had to come out of his own pocket. 
But he had shown himself all along 

singularly open to liberal suggestions 
of compromise, even when by the 
compromises he lost fat fees. 

Nominated, he was sure of triumph- 
ant election. The friend came back 
more than ever sure of it. All the 
loiterers by the way had had their 
mouths full of Massey. Doswell was 
proving over again how sadly prophets 
lack honor among their very own. 
The fact, however, did not seem to de- 
press him. Massey's emissary, pausing 
beside the door of the County Clerk's 
office, saw him walking back and forth, 
laughing and joking, yet now and again 
going white about the lips as he 
caught the drone of the tellers crying 
results that were no results. Folk in 
the square, peering through the open 
window, also noted his gayety, and 
with something of disfavor. Perhaps 
he felt the hostility. Perhaps also the 
strain of acting a part grew too tense. 
The watchers saw him after a little, 
scurry through a side door into a corri- 
dor, whence he could gain the street 
unnoted and unseen. 

Doswell knew his way about blind- 
fold. Very shortly he came out of an 
obscure back door upon a dark, quiet, 
and nearly empty street. In the very 
darkest part he ran upon two men, so 
deep in talk they hardly stirred as he 
brushed by them. It gave him a 
curious start to catch his own name 
as he passed, but he hurried on to the 
street-end, where it became open 
commons, and stood there, letting the 
weak night breeze play on his bare, 
hot forehead. Then in curious, un- 
reasoning panic, he turned and half 
ran back to the courthouse. As he 
climbed the steps of it his heart stood 
still for a full beat, then went thump- 
ing like a trip-hammer. Men were 
shouting his name, over and over, 
shouting it with wavering cheers be- 
tween. Those outside took up the 
cheering lustily. One of the roughest 
looking men slapped his neighbor on 
the back and yelled: "Listen at that! 
Whut did I tell ye? Birdie's bound 
ter roost high, jest like I said — got a 
hundred an' fifty ter Massey's measly 
hundred an' one. Yell fer him, ye 
cripples — yell good and loud! Talk 
about 'railroad inflooence.' Hit ain't 

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in it beside good loud hollerin' at this 
stage o' the game." 

As the yells rose again and yet 
again, louder, shriller, more vibrant 
with triumph, Doswell began to trem- 
ble. Things swam a little before him. 
All eyes were so intent upon what was 
going on within nobody had recognized 
him. Inside, the buzzing and burring 
swelled momently to uproar. Doswell 
wondered what his managers were 
up to. How would they take his 
running away thus at the crisis? And 
how, oh, how, had this sudden amaz- 
ing gain for him been brought to pass? 
As he asked frimself mentally the 
question, a quick hush fell upon the hu- 
man storm. Through the strengthen- 
ing stillness he heard Reasoner's voice, 
not loud but incisive and penetrating, 
saying clearly: " Gentlemen of the 
Convention : Now for two days I have 
held my peace, waiting to see whether 
the Q. & M. road could name Mr. 
Massey for governor, or the Busy Bee 
give us the Honorable Byrd Doswell. 
I knew it for a battle of giants. At 
least I thought I knew it. Against 
them what chance was there for choice 
by the plain people? Right there I 
made my mistake — a mistake I have 
discovered within this last half hour. 
The paternal railroads are not fighting 
each other; they desire above every- 
thing community of interest. That 
is what they are here for — in the per- 
sons of our leading candidates. 
Though I might be unable to prove it 
in a court of justice I do not hesitate 
to say here and now, upon information 
and belief, this is an unfair fight — 
unfair all round. The railroads have 
generously given us choice — pitted 
their two best attorneys, one against 
the other, to determine which has the 
wider following in the State. Which- 
ever of them we choose, he will bear the 
railroad brand, wear the railroad 
collar. Knowing that, will you choose 
either? I, for one, will be no party to 
such choice. Instead, I shall vote 
henceforth for Andrew Jackson Miller. 
All delegates who put honor, good 
faith and pride in their State above 
orders from headquarters, will, I 
think, do likewise." 

Pandemonium followed the breath- 

less hush — the floor became instantly 
a sea of heads, arms, clinched hands. 
Vainly the chairman splintered desk 
and gavel; vainly motions, demands 
for roll call, cries, questions, oaths, 
shot into the thick air. Four stalwart 
fellows lifted Reasoner to their shoul- 
ders, holding him in full view of all. 
To cries of "Vote! Vote!" came 
counter cries of "Vote out loud!" 
A white-haired delegate, tears raining 
down his sunken cheeks, cried: "Mil- 
ler forever!" and marched past the 
tellers. Instantly all but a handful 
of the convention fell in behind him, 
each man chanting hoarsely: "Miller 
for me!" Miller, a red-faced, blocky 
man, the only candidate to sit among 
the delegates at the head of his coun- 
ty's representatives, looked dazed, 
even troubled. He had previously 
taken his candidacy as something 
between a joke and a personal com- 

Outside distorted fragments of Reas- 
oner's speech flew from lip to lip, and 
set the watchers wild. Before the 
balloting was half over there were 
shouts: "Miller! Miller! Three 
cheers for an honest man ! For Miller, 
the people's own!" As the cheers 
rang out, ever mounting in volume, 
Miller came down the courthouse steps 
arm in arm with Reasoner. To the 
men who grasped his hand from every 
side he said, shaking his head almost 
sadly: "Boys, you're seein' a bad job 
mighty well done. Ain't no tellin' 
who's governor till the election's over 
— not by a long chalk. Massey has 
acted white enough — says he'll see me 
through, and it was all lies Reasoner 
heard — but the Doswell crowd are 
fightin' mad — wouldn't make it unani- 
mous, no tetch. With the railroads 
to back 'em, they can make a heap o' 
trouble. So this may mean a split in 
the party — and the State turned over 
to the Republicans." 

Well might the Doswell partisans, 
especially those nearest their leader, 
be in a furious rage. It was one of 
their own number wh» had betrayed 
them to Reasoner. The rank and file 
of course had known nothing — as little, 
almost, as the voters who were later 
to register their decree. But those 

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at the head had understood all along 
that whoever first gained decided ad- 
vantage was to be immediately ac- 
cepted by the other side. The dummy 
compromise men were — merely dum- 
mies, things meant for effect, or des- 
perate last resorts. And in another 
ballot Doswell would have won ! The 
faithful gathered about him, hot with 
anger, eager to plan vengeance, to 
organize wrath. But he turned from 
them, saying dazedly: "Wait! Wait 
until to-morrow !" and ran away into 
outer darkness. 

Catherine was waiting for him; he 
could not bear to have her hear of his 
defeat from other lips than his own. 
He would tell her, without glozing — 
then beg her to have faith a little 
longer — on his promise to turn defeat 
into victory. Dimly, uncertainly, he 
felt he could do it. And he would, 
though as yet the way was all dark. 
But he had hardly got out of the crowd 
when a hand was laid on his arm, and 
a voice said: 

"Pardon me, but this is Mr. Dos- 
well? I have just heard of what has 
happened — how your State has lost 
the chance of having your services 
through a drunken man's jest, seriously 
or maliciously taken for earnest. Do 
not, I beg, think me presumptuous 
nor impertinent, but listen to what I 
have to say. Another convention 
meets the day after to-morrow — one 
more capable of serving the State 
than this frantic mob — " 

"Let me pass! I — I am in a hurry," 
Doswell protested, trying to free him- 
self from the other man's clutch: 
"Besides, you can't have any real 
business with me — haven't I seen you 
around the Q. &. M. offices? Of 
course I can't see you in the dark, but 
your voice — that gives you away." 

"I'm glad it is serving as a creden- 
tial," the stranger said, not relinquish- 
ing his hold. "And I certainly have 
business with you — if you are ready 
to do business." 

' 'Speak out ! I'm ready for — almost 
anything," Doswell said recklessly. 
The other man laughed, and shed his 
formal manner as a garment, running 
on: M You ought to be — after getting 
the double cross, the meanest sort of 

throw-down, from those fool delegates. 
What I want of you is not so very 
much — only to run on the Republican 
ticket — and help the Q. & M. give the 
the State a white man's Republican 

Doswell recoiled a pace, almost 
staggering. Then, somehow, across 
the hot, gusty night, Catherine's face, 
warm, delicate, alluring, swam before 
him. He put a hand over his eyes, 
shuddering strongly. After a breath 
he stood up very straight, linked his 
arm through that of the stranger, and 
said: "I'm with you — for two days 
at least. But mind — I promise noth- 
ing, until after I have had twelve 
hours of solid sleep." 

In even the most rural communities 
much may be done in two days when 
one has railway companies at one's 
back and carte blanche in the matter 
of telegrams. Miller was nominated 
after Wednesday's midnight. By Sat- 
urday morning, when the Republican 
convention met, the whole State ap- 
peared to be spotted with centers of 
Democratic disaffection. Citizens of 
credit and renown were rising up in 
multitudes to hurl back the charge of 
collusion, and fake-contest between 
their respective favorites. Of the 
convention's choice they said things — 
things which made it lucky he had 
constitutionally a thick skin. "Mr. 
Miller boasts mightily that he is 'un- 
bought,'" wrote one Doswell partisan/ 
"Is the fact, if it be a fact, so greatly 
to his credit? Has there been a 
market, much more a market price, 
for blockheads, since kings went out 
of fashion this side of the sea ? ' ' Other 
men of other minds were not less 
severe. Outwardly Miller smiled at 
their assaults; inwardly he bled, but 
no man guessed it. 

Good man, he was to find succor 
at the hands of his enemies. The Re- 
publicans had put their convention in 
the capital city, the biggest in the 
State. Sight of its wonders was a 
treat to much the larger half of the 
delegates; further, having Sunday free 
to explore it was a signal inducement 
to the dispatch of business. Outside 

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the ranks of professional politicians 
nobody had ever paid the least atten- 
tion to such gatherings. The news- 
papers even contented themselves with 
printing the names of the various 
nominees, and speculating as to what 
Federal office each would feel himself 
entitled to claim, in virtue of his de- 
feat. Though the mass of voters 
represented was blacker than darkness, 
the convention hall showed usually a 
neat admixture of white and tan. In 
this special convention the tan even 
was not dominant. But in spite of 
managerial diplomacy, there was a 
dead-black clot, close beside the outer- 
most door. 

The clot gave Byrd Doswell a sick 
qualm when he came out to speak his 
acceptance of the nomination. If he 
had seen it earlier — but the die was 
cast. He had set his hand to the plow, 
with no possibility of going back from 
it. He shut his eyes just long enough 
to recall Catherine's smile, then 
plunged blindly into a sea of words. 
Whether or no they fitted the case he 
did not in the least care — all he wanted 
was to get through with it and be off. 
The farther he went over the heads 
of his audience the louder and fiercer 
he knew would be its applause. With 
thunders of applause (welling about 
him he stepped down and out, ran for 
a carriage, was whirled away to the 
depot and a waiting train, which 
landed him at last among stranger 
friendly farmer folk, who did not even 
know his name. He stayed with them 
two days The third he went to 
Pimlico — where he knew everybody — 
and where, also, by this, everybody 
knew the thing he had done. He had 
refrained from opening a newspaper, 
even from glancing at those in the 
hands of his fellow passengers on the 
train. He wanted to receive his due, 
whether sentence or reward, at the 
hands of his very own. 

Nobody else got off at Pimlico, yet 
the station master there, after a per- 
functory nod, rushed away as though 
tons of baggage claimed his attention. 
To make up for that the negro hack- 
men beamed on Doswell unwontedly — 
all save old Uncle Solomon Maclyn, 
who eyed him sorrowfully, and an- 

swered his "How are ye, Solomon the 
Wise?" with a subdued, even a quaver- 
ing, "Po'ly, thank Gawd, Marse Byrd. 
I specs I sees you de same." 

"Same place — home," Doswell said, 
sinkingback in the ramshackle vehicle, 
smiling at the knowledge that Solomon 
would understand. The hack had 
been aforetime the grand Maclyn 
family carriage, and Uncle Solomon 
had driven it, brave in Maclyn livery. 
When it was sold at his old master's 
sale he had invested in it ten of his own 
hard-earned dollars. Possibly the 
purchase had determined his future. 
Having a vehicle there was nothing 
for it but to set about driving it for 
profit. Doswell had helped him in 
the matter of getting horses for it, yet 
would never recall the matter when 
it came to a question of paying fare. 
"Here! Take your dollar, confound 
you! Don't talk to me of accounts!" 
he had said to Solomon the Wise at 
least a hundred times since the trans- 
action came to pass. He had the 
Southern warm heart toward the whole 
black race — in its proper place. He 
had not yet got over wondering how 
it would feel to bear rule over his 
fellows by virtue of the black man's 
suffrage, to which he had been in 
every way opposed. 

The road to Melrose, the Maclyn 
plantation, ran straight through the 
heart of Pimlico town. It puzzled 
him to find Uncle Solomon twisting 
and turning so as to keep in the out- 
skirts and on the most unf requented 
by-ways. It also displeased him a 
little. He had been picturing to him- 
self this last hour the frowns turning 
to laughter, the headshakes running 
on to handshakes, the jokes, and guy- 
ing of the fellows on the square. 
Here at home he must turn his can- 
didacy into a joke. No doubt the rest 
would help him; no doubt, also, they 
would end by laughing at him, as they 
had done in the old days when for 
some specially audacious prank, he 
had been sent down a while from 

It was a distinct shock to have Joe 
Ransom, suddenly encountered, whip 
his horse hard and gallop off, paying 
not the slightest heed to his shouted 

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greeting. But he had not time to 
speculate on what it meant — they 
were coming upon Melrose, where the 
big stone gate-posts sagged a little 
more, the fences were more ram- 
shackle, the garden weedier and more 
desolate than when he had seen them 
last, a fortnight back. The house 
itself could not well be more ruinous; 
the portico columns had tumbled 
down years back, and the roof was but 
a mosaic of moss and lichens. But 
somehow it had a forlorner look — the 
door stood barely ajar, not hospitably 
wide as was its summer fashion. He 
flung it back without knocking, and 
stepped through the hall into the big 
square parlor. Faint metallic tinkles 
told him Catherine was there, amusing 
herself at the wheezy piano her grand- 
father had bought for his bride. 
Sunlight flooded the undraped win- 
dows, making pitifully plain the mea- 
gerness, the desolation of everything. 
Catharine herself even, in a faded 
gown and slippers down at the heel — 
she looked thin and wan. The sight 
hurt him cruelly and went far to recon- 
cile him to what he had done. Noth- 
ing mattered if only he could give her 
what she deserved — keep her in cotton 
wool all her sweet life. He slipped to 
her and caught her in his arms, saying 
softly: " Darling, darling, it is all for 
you! And you will let me claim and 
keep you right now." 

Like a wraith she melted out of his 
clasp, half turned, steadied herself 
against the piano, looking at him 
the while with blazing eyes. Then 
she swung about, saying over her 

"It seems hardly — kind — to begin 
electioneering at Melrose, but permit 
me to remind you, Mr. Doswell, here- 
after you had better go where your 
supporters are to be found — that is, 
into the kitchen." 

Doswell flushed darkly at her words, 
then got suddenly white. 

"You — you don't mean that, Cath- 
erine," he said unsteadily, holding out 
his arms. "You must have known 
why I did — all for you. Think, sweet- 
heart, no matter whether I win or lose, 
our future is secure. Do you think I 
would have done it for myself? A 

big, hulking fellow like me can stand 
hardships. But to see you thus — to 
know that you go without anything, 
to think of you in poverty and know 
I could prevent! — dear, that is too 
much to ask of a man who loves you 
as I love you. I want the world — 
but only to lay it at your feet. Don't 
look at me so ! Don't turn away your 
face. You know you hate poverty, 
and all the ugly pinching it means. 
You love me, but you would have sent 
me away if I had come to you beaten, 
disgraced. I had to do something — 
or lose you. Don't you see how you 
are bound to stand by me? With you 
standing by me all the world else does 
not matter." 

Catherine locked the hands he tried 
to take childishly behind her, edged 
to the door, and said in little gasps: 
"I do hate to be poor. I do love 
money. I did — O! I did love you — 
once. Not well enough to be poor 
always, maybe, but for anything else 
— except this. At first I would not 
believe it, no matter who said it. It 
did not seem that a man I loved could 
sell his white man's birthright for a 
mess of pottage." 

"Who told you that?" Doswell 
demanded, flushing sharply. 

Catherine's head went up. "No- 
body. I told myself," she said. "I # 
stood up for you as long as I could — I 
even said the papers were lying — until 
poor old Uncle Solomon came to me, 
crying, to tell me it was *de dyin' truf e' 
— he had heard from the preachers. 
If you care for me, for him, for your 
father's name, your mother's memory, 
go away! Go at once. Not a soul 
will speak to you in the way of friend- 
ship — except, of course, your fellow 

"I am going," Doswell said hoarsely, 
stepping in front of her. "No, I shall 
not touch you," he went on, seeing 
her shrink. "But remember this — 
I am going away to fight. All of you 
will be glad to speak to me, I think, 
when I am governor." 

He did fight— a battle that is still 
historic. It ought to have won — it 
must have won against any decent 

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odds. But when a whole people is 
touched on its tenderest point, what 
will you have ? Notwithstanding Dos- 
well came even nearer winning at 
the polls in November than he had 
done at the August convention. So 
near, indeed, that the old man and 
his co-partners, who had inspired the 
young fellow's candidacy, could not 
forgive him for losing. If only he had 
asked for a few more yards of passes, 
a few more thousand dollars, they were 
sure the ticket would have gone 
through with bells on. 

Naturally, they inclined to be illib- 
eral at the day of final settlement. 
Doswell laughed in their faces. He 
knew, and knew they knew, that he 
had a hook in their jaws. He did not 
ask them to pay for — what he had 
risked and lost. Money could not 
do that, powerful as it was. But they 
could give him the chance to begin 
life over again, afar from the scene of 
his bitter experience. And he meant 

they should do it — not as alms, but 
in the way of upright business oppor- 
tunity. He meant to make good all 
he had spoken to Catherine. Of 
course, he would never see her again. 
Equally of course she would marry 
a better man — perhaps Morton Massey, 
who had all but redeemed himself by 
heroic work for Miller. Doswell 
wished her joy whatever befell her — 
but he would never stay in the State 
and see her another man's wife. 

Man proposes — sometimes. Some- 
times also woman. Catherine was a 
creature born for surprises. Upon the 
very day of his departure, after com- 
plete victory over the old man, Dos- 
well found her suddenly hanging about 
his neck and saying: "O Byrd, I am 
going with you! I know we can be 
married in time. So long as you are 
going North, it doesn't matter the 
least bit — but down here, I never could 
have spoken to you again, after your 
turning Republican!" 


When Spring comes dancing down this way, 

The valley of the Cumberland 

Becomes a magic wonderland 
Less fit for mortal than for fay. 

A sunlight that is half divine 

Shines down from skies of limpid light. 

O drowsy blossoms, hid from sight, 
Awake, and see the sun-god shine! 

What is that music, wistful, sweet, 

That makes the bare-boughed like ring? 
Oh, hush! and hear the bluebird sing 

His carols, for the season meet. 

What is that blush, that well might be 

Aurora, rising from her sleep? 

Nay! On the knobs, the red-buds keep 
A holiday, that all may see. 

And are those snowdrifts, scattered thus 
Beneath these skies, so warm and mild? 
Not snow, but wreaths of dogwood wild, 

That maiden Spring has twined for us. 

When Spring comes dancing down this way, 
We leave dull Care to winter moods. 
We seek the healing of the woods, 

Where lowly forms of life are gay. 

Each branch flows rippling on its way; 

Each bird sings sweetly to his mate; 

Each flower forgets its winter fate, 
And all the world awaits its May. 

O heart bowed down! Look up! Look up! 

The longest winter has its spring; 

God's good must come to everything: 
There is some sweet in every cup. 

All glacier-crushed, your heart of fire, 
Like lava-beds beneath the snow, 
Has hugged its pain, has curbed its woe. 

'Tis over. List the cardinals' choir! 

Look up, look out! All nature smiles. 

Smile, and be glad. Can you not dare? 

This world is very wide and fair, 
And sweet with violets, miles on miles 

The violets that bloomed last year, 
The hopes that died — how long ago? 
All these lay covered by life's snow. 

Ah! Mourn them not. Life still is dear. 

When Spring comes dancing down this way. 

All Nature hastens to rejoice. 

Let me, too, lift my thankful voice, 
From out life's wreckage, for the May. 
Katherine Keije. 

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By Timothy Hay 

LONDON is the most 
interesting city of 
the world to English 
speaking people. It 
is unlike all other 
cities of the globe, 
because it is a com- 
bination of many. 
Many centimes have 
seen its building and 
in its growth it has 
simply placed one 
city beside the other, instead of build- 
ing toward the sky. It adds a small 
city every year to its mammoth dimen- 
sions, for its annual increase is forty 
thousand souls; and when we are in 
the stream of life that flows through 
the Strand and Fleet Street, we fully 
realize that time and tide wait for no 
man. History may repeat itself, but 
biography never does, and it seems 
strange to see so many names that 
bring back memories of the immor- 
tal dead. 

The Strand was once the shore of 
the Thames. Now it is the greatest 
thoroughfare of the world's greatest 
city, and Fleet Street, its continuation, 
is replete with historic associations. 
Henry VIII and Cardinal Wolsey once 
claimed it as their residence, and at 
the corner of Chancery Lane and Fleet 
Street, more than, two and a half 
centuries ago, there stood the milliner's 
shop of Izaak Walton. Kings and 
queens in royal robes have marched 
along this way, and beggars in rags 
still ask a paltry "tuppence" alike 
from the tourists or the subjects of 
the crown. 

Going down historic Fleet Street 
one night after ten o'clock, I saw a 
peculiar sign painted on an old-time, 
four-sided street lantern. The sign 
read, "Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese." 

It hung in front of as common a looking 
grog-shop as you will ever see. The 
sign was interesting, and I was anxious 
to see where the place was that it 
heralded in such a quaint way. The 
grog-shop was not the place, but just 
to the right of it was a dark passage 
about three feet wide, and on either 
side of the wall was painted a sign 
exactly like that which I saw on the 
lantern. I walked down this dark 
hall, turned to the left twice, and I 
was in a darker space than before. 
On my left was an old-time English 
bar, with the historic barmaids serv- 
ing bitter ale in large brown mugs. 
To the right was the place of interest. 
An old room about eighteen by twenty- 
four feet, with a low ceiling, was a 
dining room. There was no sign of 
elegance, but queer memories clung to 
the walls. The plain, wooden tables 
were spread with clean linen, and the 
plank floor was covered with sawdust. 
The high-backed wooden benches sug- 
gested a picture of a distant age. 
Time had touched them not too gently, 
and many an old frequenter had taken 
time by the forelock and had done 
some carving on his own hook. It 
was not artistic. It was done without 
any special design, very much like that 
on old goods-boxes in country towns 
of the old Southland. Some of the 
benches were nearly carved in two. 
In some places you could see where 
names had been carved, possibly 
names that have been written among 
the immortal men of letters, but a 
later generation of wood-carvers had de- 
stroyed these signatures. On the walls 
of this room are queer pictures of old- 
fashioned folk, and in one corner is a 
picture of Dr. Samuel Johnson, the 
character around whom, with Gold- 
smith, much of the story of the Cheese 

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is woven. A brass tablet on the wall 
just below this picture informs us that 
this was the favorite seat of Dr. 
Johnson. Possibly in this corner first 
came the inspiration of the immortal 

Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese is the re- 
mains of what was once known as 
44 Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese Tavern 
Near Ye Fleet Street Prison, an Eat- 
ing- House for Goodly Fare," and it 
may appear to some that it should 
have been forgotten long ago, with 
the host of its associates that have 
perished for prosperity's sake in the 
progress of what has been aptly called 
' * Vanishing London. ' ' But the tavern 
has been linked with the story of 
English history too closely to be for- 
gotten. It rose with the passing of 
the English Dark Ages, and was 
written in immortal song by Chaucer 
in his ''Canterbury Tales." Now, the 
War of the Roses submerged the best 
of English social life, and with it de- 
parted for a time the English inn ; and 
then arose with the Puritans the tav- 
ern's formidable rival, the coffee- 
house. Thus flourished Will's Coffee- 
House in the time of Dryden. 

Every civilization has its own pe- 
culiar customs, and men in all ages 
have either touched the cup that 
cheers or inebriates, or drunk the 
draught that kills. In the center of 
old London was the tavern and in the 
west end was the coffee-house, and 
around the boards of each there sat 
great lights, whose spirits still haunt 
the dark courts and dingy corners of 
the city by the Thames. It is the 
eternal commonplace that lives. Pal- 
aces are kept in repair by costly expen- 
ditures, and when the appropriation 
ceases or the slaves can no longer 
support the pomp and pageant by 
their sweat and blood, the luxury of 
crowned heads must die, but the 
commonplace cannot perish. Schiller 
has said, "Time consecrates, and what 
is gray with age becomes religion." 
I have taken Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese 
as a text because it is a type of the 
old-time tavern, the only type that 
is given to us in the original. It is a 

three-story building. The first floor 
is the dining room, the second was 
once a smoking and reading room, 
and the third was more like the inner 
court of the Temple, used only by the 
fortunate guests of the tavern as a 
storage-room when they were too full 
for utterance. The second and third 
floor rooms are open now only to show 
the changes time has wrought. There 
is no outside to this building. The city 
has grown around it and closed it in 
on all sides by walls of granite, like 
the concretions that gather around 
the jewels of the sea. It is shut in 
from all sounds of the city save the 
ponderous peal of the bells of St. Paul. 

There is no date recorded of its 
building, but we know that for over 
two hundred years it has been a re- 
treat of the learned and the curious, 
the place where the one dreamed im- 
mortal thoughts and fashioned stories 
that live, and where the other stepped 
in to drink an ale and inquire and 
wonder. I was one of the curious. 
I fell from the throng of modern Fleet 
Street and in two minutes was lost in 
the charm of this ancient tavern, where 
the wandering minstrel and the walk- 
ing dictionary used to linger over a 
rump steak and a pint of port. 

London, so full of glorious memories 
of great men, has lost nearly all its 
landmarks. Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese 
still lives and twice a week has its 
feast days, when it serves its old-time 
rump pudding and toasted cheese. 
This pudding is served in a large brown 
bowl, and when cooked and ready to 
serve it weighs one hundred pounds. 
It is hard to tell exactly what it looks 
like, but it has somewhat the appear- 
ance of the pictures of the relics of the 
mound-builders — and what it is made 
of the Lord and the chif only know. 

I attended one of these feasts and 
found a host of Americans gathered 
there. Tennessee sat next to Texas, 
according to its time-honored custom, 
and each winked at the other as much 
as to say that the governors of the 
two Carolinas could have no possible 
excuse, for saying, "It's a long time 
between drinks." 

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"Uncle Joe," as he is colloquially 
and appreciatively known, is easily 
the central figure in Congressional 
circles. This is due not so much to 

at Guilford in 1836. He removed to 
Illinois at an early age and became a 
lawyer. Entering the political field 
he immediately became a noteworthy 


the fact that he is Speaker of the House 
as it is to his own forceful personality 
and his unique methods of controlling 
the body of representatives. Mr. Can- 
non is a native of North Carolina, born 

influence and with the exception of 
the Fifty-second, he has been a mem- 
ber of each Congress from the Forty- 
third to the Fifty-ninth, inclusive. He 
was Chairman of the Appropriations 

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Committee in the Fifty-first to the Fifty- on her own loom, he lost no time in 

seventh Congresses, and has been having it made up into a suit, which 

Speaker of the last two Congresses, he has since worn with pleasure. 

Mr. Cannon is noted for his plainness 

of speech and dress. When the wife The Fortier family is an ancient 

of a rural constituent presented him one in Louisiana and dates from the 

with some cloth which she had woven beginning of the eighteenth century 

From stereography copyright, 1906, by Underwood A Underwood, New York 


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when Francois Fortier left St. Malo 
in Brittany to settle in the colony 
founded by d'Iberville and Bienville. 
Alc6e Fortier is the son of a progressive 
sugar planter who had a passion for 
composition and wrote graceful French 
poetry. The son was fitted for college 

Folk-Lore," as well as a number of 
works in French on the French history 
and language. His work has been 
recognized by the order of Chevalier 
de la Legion d'Honneur in France and 
by a number of literary and scientific 
degrees from our own universities. 

An account of whose death appeared in March issue 

at home, and attended the University 
of Virginia, afterwards studying in 
Paris. These varied fields of work 
amply fitted him for his subsequent 
career in the study of history and the 
Romance languages. He has made 
a particular study of the history of 
his State and has given us a " History 
of Louisiana" and "Bits of Louisiana 

Although his work in the Chair of 
Romance Languages at Tulane Uni- 
versity occupies the greater portion 
of his time, yet he finds time to do a 
great deal for the public study and 
the preservation of the history and 
literature of his section. He was 
Chairman of the History Jury at the 
St. Louis and Paris Expositions. 

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Professor Fortier is in great demand 
as a lecturer at summer schools and 

Luke E. Wright, of Tennessee, who 
goes to Tokio as the first American 
Ambassador accredited to Japan, was 

of caring for the sufferers. General 
Wright, who was a leading lawyer, 
dared death with his devoted associ- 
ates for the sake of the many who 
could not seek safety in flight. Many 
stories are told of his ministrations to 
the sick and dying, and his subsequent 
courageous work in restoring the 


the premier appointee to the position 
of Governor-General of the Philip- 
pines, from which he has been trans- 
ferred. The honor of being the first 
to hold each of two such important 
positions is not greater than General 
Wright had already earned by deeds 
which will render his name revered by 
generations in Memphis, his home city. 
During the scourge of yellow fever 
in 1878-79 he was a member of 
that noble band, the Howard Associa- 
tion, which faced the calamity, devising 
and carrying out systematic means 

stricken city to perfect sanitary con- 

Appointed a member of the Philip- 
pine Commission in 1900, he ren- 
dered service of eminent value at 
Manila, cooperating with Judge Wil- 
liam H. Taft effectively, both in 
matters of administration and in the 
not less important process of winning 
the esteem and personal confidence 
of the Filipinos. In 1903 he was 
made President of the Commission, 
after the dual military and civil gov- 
ernment of the islands was abolished 

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in the fall of 1903. In that capacity 
he successfully inaugurated a purely 
civil administration. General Wright 
returned to the United States in De- 
cember on a leave of absence and was 
offered the Ambassadorship to Japan, 
which he accepted. 

In 1828 the Baltimore & Ohio Rail- 
road had just commenced to lay its 
tracks, upon which to propel, by 
means of sails and horsepower, its cars. 
Caleb Davis, a citizen of Baltimore and 
a veteran of the War of 1812, took 
heavy contracts for construction work 
on the new road, and in this year his 
son Thomas was born. Little Thomas, 
the fifth child, was to have a 
father's care for a short period, how- 
ever, death removing the parent, 
leaving the family in straitened circum- 
stances. Mrs. Davis early taught her 
boys the value of self-reliance. They 
followed the plough by day and at 
night she taught them their lessons. 
As they grew older they began to 
contribute to her comfort, Henry 
Gassaway (candidate during the last 

Member of Congress from West Virginia 


campaign -for Vice President on the 
Democratic ticket) securing a position 
on the new road for him- 
self, and later one for 
Thomas, too. In a few 
years the brothers began 
buying and shipping coal 
and lumber. They set 
up stores, operated banks 
and built railroads 
through the rich regions 
of West Virginia. To-day 
they are multimillionaires. 
Thomas B. Davis for a 
number of years declined 
political preferment — in 
fact, his first political 
office, that of State 
legislator, was taken when 
he was seventy years 
old. He is not only the 
eldest member of the 
" freshman class" in the 
House, but is one of the 
most keenly alert and 
interested, bringing to his 
Congressional duties the 
same earnestness and thor- 
oughness which have in- 
duced his business success. 

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One of the most promising young 
men of Indian Territory is Charles 
Sevier Walker, of Tulsa. As a lawyer 

hood for the Territory. He was secre- 
tary of Tulsa's Commercial Club last 
year but the heavy duties of his prac- 


and as a public-spirited citizen Mr. 
Walker takes leading rank in his 
community. A native Tennessean and 
a graduate of Cumberland University, 
at Lebanon, he is a staunch Democrat, 
and has been an energeticworker in aid 
of his party's efforts to secure state- 

tice have since compelled him to retire 
from this branch of' civic activity. 

It would be hard to overestimate 
the importance of the work of the 
Cotton Growers' Association. The 

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movement, derided at first in some 
quarters, has steadily demanded con- 
sideration and there is no doubt that 
it will eventually revolutionize the 

the cotton planting business for twenty 
years, and has made a thorough study 
of the conditions governing the profita- 
ble production of the staple. He 


methods of growing and marketing 

One of the most active workers in 
the Mississippi Cotton Association is 
Mr. W. K. Herrin, of Robinsonville, 
one of the chief promoters of this work 
in his State. Mr. Herrin has been in 

has acquired large interests both 
landed and commercial, and is keenly 
alive to all progressive business inter- 
ests. Mr. Herrin is also identified 
with the movement to appoint a 
Commissioner of Agriculture in his 

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By Thornwell Jacobs 


Who sins in the Shadow of the 
Attacoa shall never look upon the face 
of the Great Manitou. — Eseeola Leg- 

41 Many, many aeons ago," ran~the 
holiest story of the wigwam, "before 
there were any rivers to run quietly 
into the sea, or any green grass to 
grow, while the earth was yet a watery 
waste, a woman named A-ta-en-sic 
looked down from a rift in the clouds 
that covered the heavens and saw the 
sad waters that lay upon the Universe 
even as a wailing papoose lies upon the 
back of a weary mother. The gentle 
heart of A-ta-en-sic was touched by 
the desolation that she saw and she 
leaped through the rift to make with 
her own hands a pleasure spot on the 
face of the moaning waters. Little 
by little she built the earth and it be- 
came an abiding place for her children. 
There was given her a daughter sur- 
passing fair. The Dawn she was, and 
her name was At-ta-co-a. The Sons 
of At-ta-co-a were I-os-ke-ha, the Fair 
One, and Ta-wis-ka-ra, the Dark One. 
I-os-ke-ha was kind and good. Around 
the earth he traveled calling forth the 
joyous springs and the green grass, 
planting the beautiful trees and herbs 
and giving light and life to all he 
looked upon. Ta-wis-ka-ra, the Dark 
Brother, tried always to undo the 
deeds of the White One. He made 
his home on the crest of a great rock, 
and from thence sent forth his storm 
clouds and hurled his thunderbolts. 
Even when he slept his hoarse voice 
could be heard, muttering and rum- 
bling in the depths of the cavernous 

rock. When he issued forth he cov- 
ered his giant form with a mantle of 
darkness which spread over all the 
earth. The blossoms closed their 
flower-cups, the grasses stooped low 
on the ground and the birds hid their 
heads under their wings in the silent 
trees, for those who looked upon the face 
of Ta-wis-ka-ra and felt his blasting 
breath could never feel again the soft 
and loving touch of I-os-ke-ha nor 
answer to his loving call ; but standing 
lifeless in their places would waste away 
into the earth. I-os-ke-ha and his 
helpers dwelt in the soft white clouds 
that covered the face of the heavens. 
In the heart of the great rock Ta-wis- 
ka-ra built castles for his demons of 
darkness and the ruins of some may 
still be seen, rising like towers from 
the south side of the rock, so that men 
call them The Chimneys. For many 
moons Ta-wis-ka-ra and I-os-ke-ha 
struggled for dominion of the earth. 
The Fair One and his helpers strove 
mightily with the demons of the Dark 
One, but many times they were 
driven back altogether; and many 
times could make only a little rift in 
the black clouds which rose from the 
workshop in the rock and spread over 
all the heavens and the earth. 

"One morning, borne on the wings 
of his mother At-ta-co-a, I-os-ke-ha 
came speeding toward the crest of the 
great rock. There the conflict be- 
tween the two brothers joined. Fast 
and furiously they fought. The dark 
storm clouds gathered and the light- 
nings played round their heads. Ti- 
tans and demons came to witness the 
contest which took place that morning 
on the crest of the mighty mountain. 

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Atlastwhen the 1>attle raged fiercest and 
each brother was sore wounded and 
bleeding the mother-heart of At-ta-co-a 
could bear no longer to watch the furi- 
ous passions of her sons wreaking ruin 
each upon the other, and her own 
white breast she bared and interposed 
between them. This was the undoing 
of the peaceful Dawn, for the unreason- 
ing fury of the combatants compassed 
her about and, mortally wounded, she 
fell, expiring, into the arms of the Fair 
One. The Dark One, looking with 
shuddering terror upon his mother's 
pallid face, would fain have fled, but 
even as his lowering eyes sought a 
refuge a terrific thunder peal sum- 
moned the subterranean powers and 
the rugged mass of rock was split in 
twain. That part upon which the feet 
of Ta-wis-ka-ra had been planted was 
rent asunder, forcing into the rock a 
great crevice. Here, for many moons 
the Dark One lay, but step by step he 
cut his way upward, sending before 
him his clouds and his mantle of dark- 
ness. When he reached the top, spent 
and worn by his labors, I-os-ke-ha 
and his shining legions drove him far, 
far away to the West, the Land of 
Eternal Night, where he still holds 
his gloomy sway, and where the beams 
of the bright sun are ever devoured by 
his demons of darkness. 

"And so at sunrise when the Dawn 
dies in arms of Light, the Cherokees 
used to bring their offerings to At-ta- 
co-a, and still when the Autumn comes 
tiny drops of her blood may be seen on 
the ground and are drawn up into the 
gakuc leaves formed into the shape of 
her heart, and redden them, too, that 
the children of the forest may be re- 
minded of her who died that light 
might cease its conflict with darkness. 
To this day the bloody galax leaf is 
called the Heart of At-ta-co-a ; to this 

day men descend the perilous steps 
cut in the face of the rock by the 
mighty hand of Ta-wis-ka-ra. And 
to the mystic mountains of which it 
was a part the Great Manitou comes 
in the autumn to prepare for his winter 
nap, composing himself with a last 
pipe, whose smoke he blows over the 
Tarquoee Valley, and men call it 
Indian Summer. There, too, as in 
days of old, he gathers his white 
blankets about him and lies prone 
upon his bare bed, the great Tolista 
Ridge, sleeping under the white mantle 
of Winter, till the flowers come in the 
early springtime at the call of I-os- 
ke-ha to meet him on the brow of 
Sunahlee, Mount of the Morning. 
Then the Great Manitou wakes and 
lifts the mighty fingers that have kept 
the winter rains and frosts away from 
the Eseeolas, protecting the five great 
ridges which men still call The Fingers. 
He casts away the snowy mantle, 
which has covered him during the 
winter, and summons the feathery 
clouds of the springtime, and looks in 
vain to find Ta-wis-ka-ra, that he may 
slay him. For Ta-wis-ka-ra, fearful 
of the bright arrows which I-os-ke-ha 
was wont to shoot in the summer, has 
fled far, far away to the Land of Dark- 
ness, and his giant footsteps may be 
still traced across the mountains. 
I-os-ke-ha and the Great Manitou allow 
no flowers to grow on them, and the 
green grass is there forever forbidden 
to spring, so that they are still bare and 
bald, and men have learned to call 
them Devil's Footsteps. 

This is the story of At-ta-co-a, the 
mystic mountain, that bare, forbid- 
ding mass of stone, reverenced because 
there At-ta-co-a, the Dawn-Mother, 
bared her white breast that the 
terrible conflict of light and darkness 
might cease forever. 


A little, blue-eyed girl was whimper- 
ing under the big scaly-bark tree in 
Dunvegan, casting reproachful glances 
at Satan McArthur. Blood was flow- 
ing from a wound in her little bare 

leg and trickled slowly down in dwin- 
dling volume. The school bell rang and 
all the children regretfully left their 
games and turned toward the Acade- 
my. Satan, almost unbelievably un- 
dersized, dark-skinned and runted, 
turned to the tearful child. 

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"I'll bet you tell on me," he said 
sarcastically. ' 'You — " 

"You can cuss me, Satan, and make 
every one of my legs bleed, but you 
ain't goin' to make a tattletale of me," 
replied she. "I'd die before I'd get 
you into trouble, Satan Don't you 
know I would?" Her tearful eyes 
looked at him pleadingly. 

"All right, Helen," he replied surlily. 
"You know I don't ever really want 
to hurt you, but when I get so mad, 
like I do, I don't care who I hurt." 

"Yes, Satan, I know, an' I don't 
mind a little bittie rock sometimes. 
D'you love me now, Satan?" 

They had reached the schoolhouse 
door, and as he pushed her in before 
him he gave her hand a hasty squeeze 
and his large, somber eyes lit up with 
a swift flash. 

The blood flowing from Helen's 
wounded leg told the tale. 

"Helen," came the teacher's voice, 
"how did you hurt your leg?" 

No answer. 

"Helen!" the voice was imperative. 

"Ma'am?" The tears were still in 
Helen's eyes but her face wore a de- 
termined look. 

1 * Tell me how your leg got hurt. Be 
careful, child, don't let it run down 
on the floor! Come here. Now tell 
me how you got hurt." 

"I — I — don't know, ma'am." 

"You don't know? Ridiculous! 
See that little pool on the floor — of 
course you know how you got such a 
cut as that! Tell me, didn't someone 
hit you with a rock?" 

Helen looked obstinate but made 
no answer. 

"I'll bet it was Satan," whispered 
her brother, Tait Preston, to Henry 
Bailey, "but she wouldn't tell on him 
for anything. She's mashed on him." 

"Come, Helen," Miss Laura's voice 
was persuasive, "come, tell me who 
liit you and hurt you so." 

Silence on the part of the little stoic. 

"Very well," Miss Laura's tone 
became curt and crisp, "you may stay 
in after school." . 

Involuntarily Helen gave a little cry 
of dismay. She had never had to stay 
in before. She had never failed in 
lessons or conduct. Her eyes sought 

a pair of morose brown ones lowering 
threateningly on her from a desk mid- 
way of the boys' side. 

"Miss Laura!" The interruption 
came from Satan. 

"Well, Ervin." 

"I hit her." 

"You did, Ervin McArthur? 

"Because I wanted to!" 

"Because is no reason, Ervin. Tell 
me why you hit little Helen." 

The gloomy eyes sought the floor, 
the little square jaw became tense. 
"I won't tell," he muttered, through 
closed teeth. 

"Shame on you," cried Miss Laura, 
"to hit a little girl! Helen Preston, 
too, who has always defended you and 
been kind to you. I shall have to 
whip you for that." 

Without a word he walked toward 
the desk and took off his coat. Not 
to be outdone, the teacher selected 
her best hickory. There was a sharp 
knot in it which she did not see until 
the red blood showed through the 
boy's shirt. Ervin remained immo- 
bile — not a tear, not a word, not a 
sign. The teacher paused, expecting 
a petition for mercy, but it did not 
come. Heavily and more heavily the 
blows now descended. It was not the 
first time that this boy had given 
trouble. Time and time again she 
had been obliged to report him, 
threaten him, almost cajole him, trying 
in every way to control him. In- 
variably she had failed. The untame- 
able spirit, in spite of chastenings, 
flared forth at irregular intervals and 
wreaked its wrath upon those nearest, 
even though they were also the 
dearest. Between these intervals the 
boy was a happy, healthy fellow, 
popular with his mates, and a master 
hand at devising the pranks and ex- 
cursions dear to boyish hearts. Miss 
Laura had tried faithfully to improve 
these softer periods with admonitions 
and warning, but always she found 
him reserved and silent on this one 
subject. As the stick cut cruelly into 
the skin she felt that she was failing 
again. Hurt as much as it might, 
the boy was unconquerable. 

"There now, Ervin" (the knot had 

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done its work and the teacher could 
bear it no longer), "you may sit 

Without a motion of perturbation 
or any sign that he knew he had con- 
quered, the boy took his seat. His 
coal-black eyes were without a tear 
or a flash — only his hands twitched 
slightly and his little nostrils dilated 
back and forth. 

During recess he was a hero. Every 
boy and girl crowded around him ad- 
miringly. Even Muddy Creek Mack — 
the largest boy in the highest class — 
condescended to put his arm on his 

"Did it hurt much, Satan?" 

A bright little flame darted into the 
pupil of each eye, making it distin- 
guishable from the iris, and a stream 
of venomous profanity flowed from 
the childish lips. 

A few of the boys fell back . and 
some of the smaller children started 
for the schoolroom. Soon the teacher 
had heard of the boy's angry words. 
Conscious of her further inability to 
conquer the lad, she resolved instantly 
to report him to his father, the strange 
man who lived, as the poor white 
trash lived, in his little ivy-thatched 
cabin. As much as it hurt her to do 
it (for it had been Miss Laura's boast 
that she had taught for ten years and 
had never once been conquered, nor once 
reported a child to his parents) there 
was nothing else to be done. She did 
it that afternoon, saying in con- 
clusion : 

"Your boy, sir, has more of Satan 
in him than any boy I have ever seen. 
He rarely knows a lesson, but I could 
hope to correct that if it were not for 
his wicked temper; he throws rocks 
at windows, chickens, buildings. Last 
week he rocked the water buckets on 
the window sill and they leaked and 
flooded the whole floor. Yesterday 
he nearly broke little Helen's limb, 
although they say she is his sweet- 
heart. When I whipped him as a last 
resort, and partly because he dared 
me by coming to the desk and remov- 
ing his coat, he cursed me openly on 
the campus. That very afternoon he 
cut one of the boys, Mack Donover, 
a boy nearly twice as big as he is, for 

teasing him about Helen. You re- 
member how he threw a rock and 
knocked off the hat of a visitor to the 
school. I am at my rope's end. I 
have talked to him fully twenty times, 
and have cajoled him, flattered him, 
prayed with and for him, and now I 
have whipped him. The result is — 
curses. Even the boys call him 

"Poor boy, poor little boy," replied 
the father, "yet it was not he that did 
it." He closed his eyes with shame and 
saw a long, weird shadow of a mystic 
mountain stealing across Silver Creek 

The next morning when school 
opened Mr. Stiong, the Head Master, 
was present, and a long, keen hickory 
lay on the desk. The children tipped 
in as though they were in the presence 
of death. Satan entered almost last, 
impassive as ever. At sight of Mr. 
Strong and the switch he paled a little 
and his nostrils dilated. When the 
last child was in, the head teacher 

"Children," he said, "a great sin 
has been committed in your midst, and 
one that we cannot allow to go un- 
punished. A little lad, so small and 
so young that we wonder how he knew 
the words, has openly cursed the 
teacher." (A little girl in one corner 
began to whimper.) "The first thing 
he must do is to apologize. Ervin, 
stand up." 

Impassive, immobile, Satan sat a 
moment, then slowly, as though he 
had been reconsidering something, 
rose to his feet. 

"Come up to this platform!" 

He came. 

"Now repeat this apology after me: 
Miss Laura, — " 

"Miss Laura,—" 

"Yesterday among my playmates 
I cursed you." 

"' Yesterday among my playmates 
I cursed you.'" 

"I bitterly regret it." 

"I'm mighty durn glad of it!" 

If the spire had suddenly fallen from 
the little red church in under the oaks 
the teachers could not have been more 
surprised. It was inconceivable au- 
dacity! The children heard with 

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amazement and Miss Laura could 
hardly believe her ears. Satan stood 
motionless except for a twitching of 
his hands and a gleam of malicious 
wickedness in his eyes. 

1 'Take off your coat, sir ! " Here were 
the tones of another unconquerable 

The blows fell, not one or two light 
taps, but hard, heavy blows. Not 
often was a child whipped in the old 
Dunvegan school; it was a final 
humiliation, and' if that did not help 
him, it was the last step before ex- 
pulsion. The whippings were light 
and more of a disgrace than anything 
else, but as the blows came down on 
Ervin's back, the children felt that 
something terrible was happening. 
Involuntarily, the lad cowered at first 
under the rapid, heavy strokes, and 
then, with a clinch of his fist stood 
motionless. Children were crying all 
over the room. At each sharp cut 
their sobs deepened. 

"Now will you apologize, sir?" 
Mr. Strong had not the heart to strike 

But the little blue lips hissed: 

' 4 Beat me some mo' if you want to — 
beat me till I die!" 

Determined that the boy should 
apologize, the Head Master raised the 
tod again. With a cruel hiss it fell 
upon his back, but as it struck him the 
boy sank all in a heap upon the floor. 
Satan had fainted! 

"They have killed him!" shrieked 
little fair-haired Helen, her face as 
pale as chalk. "Why did he tell it? 
O Miss Laura, why did I let him 

"There, there, he is not dead — he 
has only fainted," said the teacher 
soothingly, as the whole school rose 
shrieking. 4 'See, he is coming to — give 
him fresh air — " 

There were, indeed, signs of reviving 
life. The little clenched hands began 
to tremble and the tiny, set nostrils 
to dilate. At last his expressionless 
eyes opened, the little blue lips moved, 
and in a tone of bitter injury he 

"Cursed her — 'course I cursed her. 
Damn anybody 'at'll beat a little 


This little chapter came very near 
being left out of the life history of 
Ervin McArthur, the doings of a child 
who belonged to the unimportant 
poorer class. He was the son of 
common people, so Dunvegan said, 
for they never gave any history of 
themselves and never claimed to have 
owned any slaves. They had drifted 
in a snowstorm to Dunvegan, intend- 
ing to stay only a night, but then- 
heads had grown gray waiting for the 
morrow, to depart. The wind that 
blew so mercilessly down the long, red 
hill, where Colonel Preston's old 
Ben always got out of his buggy to 
give his seven dogs a rest, blew them 
into a deserted cabin opposite the 
Preston home and the door closed on 
thenu Not even little Ervin, who was 
born before the spring had time to 
come, ever learned where their former 
home had been. Very early in his life 
the lad discovered his daemon, a fierce 
passion for a keen, sharp blade. He 
loved his little neighbor who sat by 
the great white pillars of Sunahlee 
until she saw the wizened figure of this 
son of a storm emerge from the ivy 
that covered the cabin and then ran 
to play with him ; but he did not love 
her as he loved the razor's edge or the 
rasping of the carving knife on the 
stone. He asked his mother once, in 
passion-swept tones, when she was 
sharpening it on the rock that jutted 
before their door, why he loved to hear 
it so and watch its glitter, and she 
burst into tears. Once she found him 
passing the wood-handled case-knife 
along his neck and murmuring: 

"Ain't it sweet? If there was only 
some blood!" She looked at him and 
then up at the storm-riven crest of 
Attacoa and shuddered. 

Little by little he discovered that 
he must fight the daemon. He told 
his mother so when she asked him the 
cause of the purple spot on his face. 
He had struck his eye because it loved 
to watch Uncle Ben kill the Preston's 
hogs. Prom that day he set himself 
to master it. 

Two little one-room cabins, with 
a covered way between, was the home 

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where the McArthurs Uved. It was 
just across the road from Sunahlee, 
where Uncle Ben kept his wonderful 
dogs. Seven they were in number, 
and they drew him in an old buggy, 
discarded by the Colonel, with Helen 
and Ervin thrown in for company. 
Ervin and his playmate learned to make 
the harness for die queer canine team, 
but Uncle Ben never let them drive. 

The years are old friends of Dun- 
vegan's, and so take long to say good- 
bye, but at last the happy, uneventful 
years of his babyhood went by and 
Ervin found himself at school, always 
helped and defended by his devoted 
little comrade, on whom he alternately 
wreaked his wrath and showered his 
affection. Helen did not complain, 
but remained steadfast in her alle- 
giance, and as the passing years took 
him more from her in the sports 
of boys she still cherished him above 
the other Dunvegan lads. Then came 
the eventful day when she laughed 
at the big cracks in the floor of his 
cabin and the rat holes in the doors. 
She was too considerate to mention 
the chickens that lived in the parlor, 
and the old clothes in the broken 
window panes. But her taunt was 
cruel enough to make Ervin want his 
first penny. It also gave him a career, 
for within the week he was devil at 
The Democrat office. Colonel Preston 
was the editor of The Democrat, and 
he admired the pluck and persistence 
of the little chap with the sullen fits 
of temper, and as opportunity arose 
he gave the boy more and more re- 
sponsibility. Six years after his en- 
trance into the office Ervin was writing 
editorials while Colonel Preston was 
visiting his life-long friend and brother- 
editor, Colonel Masters, of the Charles- 
ton Chronicle. 

It was on his return from Charleston 
that Colonel Preston realized that the 
passing years had wrought changes 
m the peasant lad, whom he had be- 
friended in such fatherly fashion. 
Ervin no longer fell into senseless 
frenzy, and with the happy confidence 
of young manhood concluded he had 
hid his daemon forever to rest. He 
was still a favorite leader in the hunt- 
ing and camping expeditions engaged 

in by the youth of Dunvegan, but no 
girl, save Helen, could lay claim to 
his attentions, and these were mainly 
in the form of moonlight talks on the 
broad front veranda of Sunahlee or 
in meetings at the big front gate, where 
they watched the shadows purple over 
Attacoa, brooding ever over little 
Dunvegan. To her he confided his 
hopes, his ambitions and his purpose 
in life, and between them passed the 
boy and girl sweethearting common 
to their age. Colonel Preston, on re- 
turning from his visit, saw the sweet 
by-play of Helen's innocent absorption 
and Ervin's confident air of possession 
and determined to nip the idyl in Its 
bud. It is one thing to help a poor 
white boy to lift himself to a higher 
level, but quite another to give up to 
him your only daughter, heiress to a 
hundred slaves. He called Tait in 
for consultation. 

"My son," he said, gravely regard- 
ing the tall, slender figure before him, 
"have you ever thought of the possi- 
bility of your sister's marrying your 
chosen friend and companion, Ervin 
McArthur? ,, 

"Why, no, father," Tait looked 
startled. "Of course I know he and 
Helen have always been sort of sweet- 
hearts, but of course neither he nor she 
would consider such a thing seriously. 
Of course, father, Ervin is a splendid 
boy — a splendid shot, and can just 
make anything with his hands, and I 
don't know of any boy I like better, 
but of course he hasn't any family nor 
propertyandof course he couldn't mar- 
ry a rich girl. That's very different from 
associating with her brother, and all the 
Dunvegan boys, while they like old 
Ervin, would think that way about 
their sisters, I'm sure." 

"Does he visit the other boys' 

"Why, no, come to think of it, he's 
not much of a gallant. Of course, I 
go out a good deal in the evening," 
smoothing complacently his neat little 
mustache and sprouting goatee, "and 
I frequently see Ervin sitting on the 
veranda with sister Helen, but I never 

"Yes, poor, motherless little girl 
— we men-folks never bought,'" 

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muttered the Colonel, pulling his 

Some days later he called Ervin into 
his sanctum and read him a letter he 
had just received from Colonel Masters. 
"I shall have no difficulty in finding 
the youth you mention a place on 
The Chronicle staff," wrote that un- 
compromising Puritan. "The young 
men of the present day are mostly 
roystering young blades, with some 
superficial talk on politics but no 
serious desire to study the times and 
take part in the history of their country 
as it is now being made. We have 
need for the youth you describe." 

Colonel Preston enlarged upon the 
advantages of a position on The 
Chronicle to a young man who had his 
own way to make. "Why, Ervin, 
you'll rise — you're bound to rise — and 
Dunvegan will be proud to claim you." 

Ervin's imagination, fired by the 
Colonel's heartiness, seized upon the 
prospect and he lost no time in making 
his simple preparations for leaving. 
In his home his mother said, bending 
her head over the coarse clothes she 
was putting into the little hair- 
covered trunk: 

"Ervin, you'll be your own man, 
now. Are you sure you can — do you 
ever have — ?" She hesitated, flush- 
ing piteously, and her son laid his hand 
on hers among the garments she was 

"Yes, mother, I am sure I can — I 
have it under complete control. Don't 
worry," he said. He finished the 
pigeon crate he was making, for he was 
boyish enough to want to take with 
him to a strange place a pair of 
dearly prized pigeons from Helen's 
own cotes. 


"Say it again, Helen," whispered 
Ervin, touching her light brown curls 
lightly with his disengaged hand, "say 
it again. I love the way you say it." 

"Dare you!" she murmured in 
assent, and he bent over her again and 
kissed her soft, warm lips. 

He stood at the gate of 
SunaMee, bidding Helen good-bye. 
He had gone to the house and for the 

first time had been met by the Colonel, 
who made himself agreeable during 
the limits of an ordinary visit. Tait, 
too, was there, and after Ervin had 
said his farewells to the others he ac- 
companied his friend to the steps and 
held him there in an interchange of 
good fellowship. Turning at last to 
go Ervin walked slowly down' the 
driveway, thinking of Helen, and as 
he recalled her she seemed more than 
ever dear to him, her hundred little 
ways more winning, and all of her, 
somehow, more desirable as she seemed 
to be fading from his horizon. And 
then there came a soft, quick footfall 
on the lawn, a low, quick call, and he 
turned to grasp the breathless little 
figure in his arms. The mischief was 
done, the Colonel's careful planning 
was set at naught. 

"You will wait for me, my sweet, 
won't you?" he begged, and then 
painted for her all the fame and riches 
he would win to lay at her feet. She 
toyed with his hair while he spoke, 
ruffling it daintily and laughingly 
patting it smooth again. 

"You witch, you're not listening 
at all!" he cried, imprisoning her 
hands and shaking his hair off his 

"Oh, yes, I am," replied the girl. 
"I just love to hear you talk about 
anything and I don't care what you 
say, because of course I know you are 
going to do all sorts of great things 
and I can think of things when you're 
gone, but to-night I have you — and 
oh, I'll miss you so when you're gone !" 

Her eyes filled and her lips trembled. 

"There, don't cry any more," he 
said. "Let's wipe away the tears. 
I'll come back some day; it won't be 
very long and then you need never 
tell me good-bye again." 

She brushed back the wet tresses 
from her eyes and tried to look bravely 
at him. 

"And will you send me the pigeons 
some day? Some day when I am very 
lonesome and homesick, and wonder 
whether you love me, will you send 
me the blue one?" 

"Yes, sweetheart, I will, you — " 

"And then if ever you are ill at any 
time — ever ill even a little bit, will you 

Digitized by 




let the Dragoon loose? It will come 
home, too, and I can come to you, and 
when you get better, I can 'dare 
you.'" She smiled saucily and he 
exacted the penalty of the dare 

"And you, little girl, will you 
promise not to let Henry Bailey run 
away with my pretty sweetheart, while 
I am away getting news for the 
Chronicler 9 ^ 

"For shame! to say such a thing 
even in fun!" she exclaimed, "and 
this our last night together!" and she 
turned toward Attacoa, so that he had 
to coax her again before she would tell 
him another secret. 

"Father says you are just sure to 
do well on the Chronicle, Ervin, and 
he knows Colonel Masters will like 
your work. He has written the Colonel 
all about your success with him on The 
Democrat. Father thinks a Dunvegan 
boy can do anything." 

"I wish I loved something like your 
father loves Dunvegan," murmured 
her sweetheart; then, seeing her look 
of dismay, added: "Some thing, not 
some one." 

The music of Uncle Ben's violin 
died away in his cabin door. A tiny 
ray of candle light came from the 
room within the great house, where 
the man who loved Dunvegan sat 
writing editorials for the Democrat. 

She was a fair little Scotch-Irish 
child, this girl Ervin McArthur had 
won, scarce past her sixteenth year, 
with light, wavy hair that was con- 
stantly getting into her eyes, which 
were as blue as the violets of one's 
childhood, and always alight with 
some joy or hope. Her form, obedient 
to the laws of her Southern clime, had 
already taken the fuller outlines of 
womanhood. There was a color in 
her cheek, of which McArthur was 
always reminded when he saw the 
crimson dashes on the creamy petals 
of the rhododendron. 

In every salient point Ervin was her 
opposite. There was no light in his 
black hair; it had all gone to his eyes. 
Thither had also fled all expression 
of features, leaving the face utterly 
impassive, with only a keenly inscruta- 
ble look. It took an honest man to 

meet serenely the piercing keenness 
of those bright, black eyes. 

"Do you not love anything more 
than father loves Dunvegan?" she 
asked him softly. "Don't you love 
heaven more?" 

4 ' Heaven ! " he exclaimed. * 'Yes, I 
love heaven more than anyone loves 
Dunvegan. This is heaven!" And 
with his hand resting lightly on her 
breast, he kissed her again and 

"Tait told me to-day, Ervin, that 
Annie Little would marry him, if she 
only trusted him enough. Isn't it 
queer to think of not trusting your 
sweetheart? Why, Ervin, I would 
trust you with my life, with any- 

"But, Helen, we have been sweet- 
hearts since as little children we made 
mudcakes on the banks of Silver 
Creek, and they — " 

"I know, but I wouldn't have a 
sweetheart that I couldn't trust entire- 
ly and completely!" 

It was a picturesque village from 
which the journalist was to go to 
mingle with the busy world where men 
were ever doing things. In the moun- 
tain shadows rested Dunvegan. 
Toward the south a low ridge of 
mountains kept off the heat of the 
tropics. To the north, and verging 
toward the east, ran the Blue Ridge 
whose nearest peaks were always genial 
in its Southern sun, and on whose 
kindly slopes myriads of flowers and 
shrubs made a beauteous show. Be- 
tween them and Dunvegan the yellow- 
backed Catawba jealously watched 
his valley, lest the maidens from the 
hamlet should come and steal for 
their cheeks the creamy white and 
delicate pink of his rhododendrons and 
mountain laurels, or draw to their 
eyes the blue of the violets that car- 
peted his meadows in the springtime. 
One must wind slowly up a long, red 
hill if he would reach Dunvegan, 
though he will invariably take the 
path through the woods instead, if 
only to frighten a wild turkey from 
her brushy covert, or entice the trail- 
ing arbutus from her leaves. The 
dogwood, too, will stare at him, her 
white eyes wide with wonder, and th^ 

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woodbine blush scarlet at his approach ; 
and if he noticed a scent, sweeter than 
all else that ever was, they are the 
sweet-shrubs, purple with rage be- 
cause he has not seen them amid the 
rank luxuriance of bud and blos- 

The woods crept up to the village 
on many sides, so that the quail that 
whistled in the wheat fields might 
quickly reach their coverings. Prime- 
val pines, great, broad-shouldered 
oaks, and spruce and fir and balsam 
there were, and hickory-nut trees, and 
scaly-barks, and the black-jack that 
the muscadine loves to climb. And 
in the midst, on a long, low ridge, was 
Dunvegan. Over it towered Attacoa, 
majestic in its somber outlines, mystic 
in its legendary watchfulness. When 
the glittering tints of sunrise picked 
out its outlines from the misty gray 
of the dawn Attacoa wore a radiant 
aspect. On hot, sunshiny days she 
reposed drowsily, like a good-natured 
giantess, her broad bosom covered 
with many-colored gems. When the 
gaudy leaves of autumn clothed her in 
gorgeousness she appeared to hover 
over the little town in a mad excess of 
riotous joy; but when winter tore 
away the clinging gay robes and cov- 
ered her in a mantle of austere white, 
then Attacoa withdrew, with an air 
of reserve and mystery, and brooded 
silently, turning toward Dunvegan the 
coldest of shoulders. 

A proud little red spire, rising 
haughtily a few feet above the giant 
trees that surrounded it (the little, red 
church in under the oaks); a large, 
square, ppmpous building of granite, 
stuccoed white, all save the tapering 
stone columns before and behind it 
(the old county courthouse, from which 
Jack Sevier had once been daringly 
rescued) ; a long street, which, begin- 
ning at the station where the newly- 
built railroad ended, soon changed 
into stores, made an abrupt turn to 
the left between pretty little homes 
with green lawns before them, and 
followed the old stage road over the 
ridge to Asheville; this was what a 
stranger thought was Dunvegan. 

"Father says Dunvegan is a spirit, 
Ervin, not a body, a spirit of love and 

faithfulness. No one ever fails Dun- 

The lights of the village in the dis- 
tance had one by one been extinguished 
and the Great Bear rose over Attacoa. 
The candle burned low where the 
editor was writing his leader for the 
Democrat, when the girl bade her lover 
farewell that night. She watched his 
impassive face as he went away, and 
trusted him. Then, blinded so by her 
tears that she could hardly follow her 
candle, she went up to her room ; and 
when she was ready for sleep, blew the 
light out and stood for a long time by 
the window that faced lie little cabin 
across the road. 

Ervin McArthur tossed that night 
for a long while restlessly, and then 
rose and lit his cigar, and relit it. His 
ambitions crowded before him, mingled 
with recollections of past pranks, odd 
little nooks known only to himself 
and a few choice spirits, and the leave- 
takings of his friends. He knew that 
the Dunvegan boys already began to 
think of him as one who was no longer 
a member of their band ; that, although 
they wished him well and were genuine 
in their regret for his departure, the 
current of their lives had already com- 
menced to flow on smoothly without 
him; he realized something of their 
attitude towards him as expressed by 
Tait to his father, and with smarting 
eyes and flushed cheeks, he vowed to 
make such a name for himself that 
they would be proud to honor him. 
Then he remembered Helen and the 
thought of her soothed his burning 
eyelids. As he recalled the touch of 
her fluttering fingers and the whole 
gentle atmosphere of her sweet dainti- 
ness, he renewed, with a lover's confi- 
dence and swelling hopes, his vows to 
accomplish great things in Charleston. 
Yes, Helen should be proud of him, 
should feel her sweet trust and confi- 
dence amply justified. Thinking thus, 
he pictured her in her little white room 
at Sunahlee, praying earnestly for his 
success, and with a tender smile about 
his grave young mouth, the youth, 
planning to send the blue pigeon home 
as soon as he got to Charleston, and the 
other on the occasion of his first head- 
ache, knelt by his own bedside. 

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The advent of the young journalist 
from the mountains created no ripple 
on the surface of Charleston life. He 
found Colonel Masters very much the 
same kind of a man as Colonel Preston, 
and he fell to work on the Chronicle 
with the same energy and patience he 
had gives to the smaller sheet. He 
found a room to his liking at Mrs. 
Adams', on Broad Street, which he 
chose for its seclusion. The good 
landlady took kindly to the serious- 
faced boy with the little hair trunk 
and the pigeon-cote and self-possessed 
air. She had a fly built for the birds, 
although Ervin told her they were to 
go home soon, and put many home- 
like touches about his room. So 
pleased was she withal that she told 
him the new joke that all the city was 
laughing over. 

Dr. Wendell Phillips had paid a 
visit to wicked, slave-holding Charles- 
ton, and put up at the hotel. He re- 
quested his breakfast sent to his room, 
and when the waiter brought it up, 
could not refrain from expounding 
his doctrine. The negro listened while 
the distinguished visitor explained the 
brotherhood of man. "TTiough my 
skin happens to be white and yours 
black, we are nevertheless brothers," 
he earnestly assured his listener, who 
seemed unresponsive to the promises 
of freedom and independence, owner- 
ship of property and other badges of 
equality. Disheartened by the sto- 
lidity of his auditor the reverend 
Doctor finally said : 

"Go away, go away, poor brother 
in black. I cannot bear to be waited 
upon by a slave." 

"'Scuse me, massa," the waiter 
replied. '"Scuse me, sah, but I must 
stay here. I'm 'sponsible for de 

Mrs. Adams laughed heartily at Its 
hundredth telling, and Ervin felt a 
thrill of pride at being thus taken into 
the city's enjoyment of the joke. Al- 
ready he loved Charleston's smile. 

Colonel Masters, watching carefully 
the work of the new reporter, grew to 
take a fatherly pride in his earnest 
interest in all that pertained to the 
welfare of the Chronicle. As at Dun- 

vegan, his quality of leadership tnade 
him popular with all the men with 
whom he came in contact. In Charles- 
ton, however, there was a noticeable 
difference in his attitude toward the 
ladies. Ervin found himself, for the 
first time in his life, thrown into the 
company of women who, knowing 
nothing of his parentage, accepted him 
on Colonel Masters' introduction and 
judged him on his own merits. He 
took this new pleasure deeply, as he 
took every experience that came to 
him. He made no attempt to join the 
frivolous circles, but was contented 
with his reputation as a serious young 
man with earnest aims. So the 
months passed on, months of pleasant 
toil and equally pleasant relaxation. 
He had not conquered the world, and 
he realized that his restless energies 
had but begun to trace the first faint 
steps toward that path of distinction 
which he had laid out for himself. He 
smiled often as he thought of his 

f>redictions to Helen and of her simple 
aith in them. The thought of 
her quiet trust in him was an anchor 
to him many times, and many times, 
too, he neglected her for weeks, 
long weeks, he knew, to the waiting 
girl. The blue pigeon was not re- 
leased, but remained unnoticed in city 
confinement, tended only by the good 
Mrs. Adams. Ervin, had, in fact, 
developed in his larger surroundings 
tnto nothing essentially different from 
the boy Dunvegan knew, though his 
broader field of activity opened more 
avenues for the diffusion of his energies. 
He still said his prayers at night and 
always saw Helen's eyes, now dancing 
with a "Dare you I" now brimming 
with farewell tears, on the quilting as 
he knelt. 

Christmas of 1859 brought to 
Charleston, along with its holiday 
awakening, a great wave of political 
excitement, which at times threatened 
to engulf the city. Argument for and 
against secession formed the keynote 
of every conversation. Yet business 
and social life showed little sign that 
in the minds of most men, an in- 
evitable conflict was at hand. The 
quays were filled with vessels loading 

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6 4 


for all ports of the world, commerce 
flowed through its accustomed busy 
channels, and the officers from Fort 
Sumter and Fort Moultrie mingled as 
ever in the rapid current of social life. 

It was then that to Ervin McArthur, 
who waited not for it, there came an 
hour of fate. Christmas Eve had 
come, and there was a reception at 
Camellia-on-the- Ashley, a large planta- 
tion adjoining the city's suburbs, and 
the scene of much of its social gayeties. 
As he drove out from the city he 
pondered on the questions at issue. 
To his mind, secession from the union 
was the only way of vindicating the 
rights guaranteed to the states in 
the original compact of federation. 
He saw the carriages that had preceded 
his turn, after leaving their occupants 
at the wide front doors, toward the 
avenue of live-oaks that led to the cab- 
ins. He saw the rows of lights twinkling 
through the Spanish moss that drooped 
from the swaying boughs. Beyond 
were grouped the smithies and smoke- 
houses, the cotton gins and rice mills, 
and beyond these lay the great, wide 
cornfields, their brown stalks still 
standing, and acre after acre where 
the cotton had glistened all autumn 
long. The soft moonlight gave an 
indescribable, ethereal charm to the 
whole, and Ervin dismissed his grave 
thoughts as he looked out over the 
tranquil scene. Entering the wide 
hall he saw Colonel Masters' intimate 
friend, the statesman Petigru. He 
was talking earnestly to Captain An- 
derson, the commandant at Fort 
Sumter, and as Ervin approached the 
receiving line he saw just ahead of 
him the uniforms of two lieutenants 
from Fort Moultrie. He had met 
Lieutenant Sherman before, and he 
heard him introduce his friend as 
Lieutenant Bragg. In turn they were 
presented, as was also Ervin, to Mrs. 
Corbin's niece, Miss Brooks, and passed 
on to mingle in the gay throng that 
moved through the broad parlors. 

Later in the evening Ervin found 
himself by the side of Helen Brooks. 
He told himself that she compared 
illy with his own Helen, that her full, 
red lips and a certain grace of form 
and movement did not make up for 

the lack of fire in her eyes. He waS 
surprised, therefore, to see her face 
light up as, in the midst of their light 
talk Mr. Petigru approached, and she 
whispered: "Calhoun, the thinker, 
Hayne, the orator, and Petigru, the 
jurist! We were speaking of the city, 
sir," she added, as the eminent man 
took the seat Ervin brought, "and 
of our giants." 

"Ah, yes," he replied, looking from 
the window in the direction of the 
town. "It is a noble city. My opin- 
ion may be tinged with partiality, but 
after making allowance for that, I 
think I may say that in the circle of 
vision from St. Michael's there has been 
as much high thought spoken, as much 
heroic action taken, and as much 
patient endurance borne as in any 
equal area of land on this continent." 
Ervin watched the girl's face glow with 
interest as she followed the words, 
and before he could reply, she inter- 

"I have heard that Charleston 
claims, in St. Andrew's, the oldest 
benevolent society in America." 

"Yes, indeed," the broad-shoul- 
dered, big-limbed man made answer; 
' 'if antiquity means greatness, Charles- 
ton can claim it on many scores. The 
first drama ever given in America was 
in Charleston in 1834; the first cotton 
ever shipped from America was from 
Charleston; we built the first long 
railroad in the world, and there is 
our library, the third oldest in Ameri- 

Both were warming to the theme. 

"Not to mention its rank as a sea- 
port," said Helen, adding quickly, "nor 
the Chronicle, which Colonel Masters 
tells me is one of the oldest newspapers 
on the continent, and which many out- 
side of Charleston believe to be the 

The young journalist knew that he 
was expected to contribute something 
after this delicate compliment, but he 
could not take his eyes off her smile 
and she continued : "Nor how the New 
York, Philadelphia and Boston ladies 
once came to Charleston for laces and 
silks and new fashions in dress." 

"Bravo, Helen!" exclaimed Mrs. 
Corbin, who had come up during the 

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latter part of the conversation. 4 ' You 
are a true Southerner. I shall place 
you by Mr. Sherman here, who is an- 
other convert." 

"After which, madam, you need 
have no doubts of my loyalty," the 
gallant Lieutenant replied. 

He was a jolly guest, this Lieutenant 
Sherman, and kept a little admiring 
knot around him laughing. He was 
in touch at once with the company. 
To Miss Brooks he was delighted at 
the record her brother was making at 
West Point and the certainty of a 
handsome appointment, and he won 
Mrs. Corbin with his frank admira- 

"There is not in all the world, Mrs. 
Corbin, so charming, so romantic, so 
hospitable a section or people as are 
found here. I am fascinated with 
your big plantations and negro settle- 
ments. How I should love to see the 
slaves in their quarters!" 

"It is easily done, sir," she replied, 
and then turning to where her niece 
was testing the inscrutability of the 
Chronicle's new city editor under the 
light of the big silver candelabra: 
"Helen, would you and Mr. McArthur 
like to go with us for a moonlight 
stroll through the quarters?" 

The four of them walked in the 
moonlight past the long rows of 
cabins, arranged in streets, sheltered 
by the great live oaks. Shouts of 
laughter, songs, and the notes of the 
banjo floated through the doors, wide 
open in midwinter. 

"This seems wonderful to us of 
Northern birth, Mrs. Corbin," Mr. 
Sherman said: "no liquor, no cursing, 
no carousing, and this Christmas Eve. 
I am sure our laboring classes in the 
North would be glad to have these 
comfortable two and four room cabins 
and these great wood fires in the big 

"And yet, Mr. Sherman," replied 
the owner of the demesne, "you see 
only a small portion of a slave-owner's 
responsibilities. The negroes are a 
light-hearted people — they sing at their 
toil in the fields as well as when the 
day's work is done. They feel no re- 
sponsibility for their well-being or hap- 
piness. We owners must see that they 

have good clothing, good food, medi- 
cal care, pleasure — everything." 

"Yes, I see," replied the Lieutenant. 
"As a business proposition, if for no 
other reason, it behooves you to keep 
them well and happy." 

"Indeed, yes. Our plantations 
have become stock companies into 
which the negroes put in no capital, 
furnish half of the labor, and get all 
the profits. Money is made, but it 
goes into these things which we have 
mentioned. Colonel Masters has al- 
ways advised me to free my slaves, 
and I think I should if it were not for 
the Abolitionists." 

"A body of fanatics, madam. But 
is it always thus orderly and joyful? 
Do you never have to use harsh 

"But rarely, sir. Occasionally a 
little whipping, but always lighter than 
the law would inflict. We hang men 
who beat negroes to death." 

4 ' Indeed ! Indeed ! Yet Simon Le- 
gree beat Uncle Tom to — " 

"Oh, yes, but you must remember 
sir, that Simon Legree was not a 
Southern man." Mrs. Corbin's voice 
took on a tone of feeling which she 
tried to balance by a smile of raillery. 

"At any rate," replied the gallant 
Lieutenant, responding to the smile, 
"if ever you do need them, I shall be 
glad to let you have our balls and 
chains from the fort." 

McArthur and Helen fell behind, 
and in a little while he was telling her 
of the Silver Creek Valley, of the 
wheat fields that matched the rice of 
the low country, and the rich, ripe 
cornfields that matched the cotton, 
for she seemed interested in it all. 
It was not until the little red church 
in under the oaks, and the streets 
named like big Charleston's, and the 
mystic altar of the Manitou had each 
been mentioned that he realized 
that he had told her all and she had 
told him naught. So he asked her 

"Were you born in Charleston?" 

"No," was the reply. "I was born 
in Boston, and my home is there." 

"Then how," he questioned, "came 
you to know so much more of Charles- 
ton than I do? I judged from your 

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talk with Mr. PetJgru that you had 
made a lifelong study of the history 
of the place. You must have lived 
here a long time?" 

"Now, you inquisitive Southerner, 
you want me to tell you all of my 
history. Surely we can find some- 
thing more interesting to talk about." 

"Not to me," responded Ervin gal- 
lantly, "but, of course, I shall not 
press the question if you don't wish 
to tell me of it." 

"Well, then, you must know I am 
half a Southerner. Aunt Florence, 
here, is mother's sister and they, with 
another sister, who now lives in Colum- 

bia, were brought up on this old planta- 
tion. Then mother married a Boston 
merchant and has lived there ever 
since, though she lets me spend a 
large part of my time with my aunts. 
I adore Charleston and this lovely old 
place and the pleasant, free, yet digni- 
fied life down here; but, of course," 
she smiled at him tantalizingly and 
made a movement to withdraw her 
hand from his arm, "I am a Yankee, 
and now the dreadful truth is out and 
you have forgotten something that 
will take you to the city immediately ! 
Or you have some copy which must be 
edited at once!" 

[To be continued.) 


Pan's in the woodland, 

Pan's in the woodland, 

The great god Pan! 

The great god Pan! 



1 with his note; 

Reveling there ; 



i remote; 

The fond and the fair; 


The surging 

Ifin and alien, 

Fauns, satyrs and sprites, 


Half crazing 

:s Bacchanalian; 

With promised delights; 



who can! 

Peer him who can ! 


Pan's in the woodland, 

god Pan! 

The great god Pan! 

Susie M . Best. 

Digitized by LiOOQ l6 

-^^.l'.-"i.J. 1 . 11 . 1 I — '. ■ . "1 . 
• v. : •:• ••?- ±s. • : _- •: . .< * . 

By Frank H. Sweet 

THE apple trees blossomed and 
sent out their fragrance to 
the four winds; the bees came 
and buzzed about their honey- 
gathering, grudging time for even the 
briefest exchange of gossip with the 
birds; and high among the topmost 
brandies, with the sea of white and 
pink flowers for inspiration, the robin 
sang and sang and still sang, while 
his wife listened in their nest below. 
In the course of time there were four 
light-blue eggs and a dusky-gray one 
in the nest, and Madam Robin, when 
she first saw the interloping cowbird 
tgg t after returning from a brief airing 
about the orchard, raised her bill to 
a threatening angle. Then her bill 
had lowered compassionately. It 
seemed too bad to thrust the egg from 
the nest and have it break upon the 
hard ground below. And after all, 

the poor little bird in the egg was not 

to blame for its mother's shortcomings. 

So the egg was kept warm with her 

own, and hatched with her own; and 

when the four baby robins opened 
their disproportionately large bills for 
food, there was always a larger bill, 
opened wider and raised higher, that 

demanded arrogantly for first and 
most attention. 

In time these mouths stretched out 
over the edge of the nest until it seemed 
as though their owners would be 
pushed from it altogether by those 
behind, and by that time the cowbird 
interloper had grown large enough to 
nearly half fill the nest himself, but 
in spite of his size he was the biggest 
baby of them all, nearly always crying, 
and always sulky if he did not get the 
best and most of everything. 

The largest of the baby robins was 
called Robin, after his father, while 
the others were named Redbreast and 
Cheerup and Rusty. 

Robin did not look upon the cow- 
bird with favor. He had submitted 
to the crowding because he could not 
help it ; but from the day when he first 
began to observe things, there was 
always a speculative look in his eyes 

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when they rested upon Cowby, as the 
interloper was called. Sometimes 
there was disgust mingled with it, 
sometimes wonder; generally it was 
mere speculation, as though he might 
be comparing their respective sizes 
and considering possibilities. But day 
after day went by, and still he con- 
tented himself with the speculation. 
Perhaps he did not think it yet time 
for taking issue. 

Mother robins have a custom of 
forcing their little ones to fly at the 
earliest possible moment. There are 
many dangers surrounding the home 
nest, and flying is a safeguard which 
every mother understands. Generally 
the little ones are anxious to learn, but 
to untried wings it is a long, long way 
from the nest to the ground, and it 

may be they grow timid and draw 
back. And sometimes there are crav- 
ens who do not even desire to fly ; the 
only thing in such case is to make 

Cowby was strong enough for this 
launching out several days before the 
robins; but Cowby was a coward, as 
most bullies are, and when his foster- 
mother urged him gently toward the 
edge of the nest until he could look 
down, his first sight of the ground 
below made him cringe and cry so 
pitifully that for the time being she 
desisted. In the case of her own chil- 
dren she would not have done this; 
but her sense of justness made her fear 
that she might discriminate against 
the stranger. By this time Robin's 
speculative look had become one of 
open contempt. The next morning 
while his mother was searching the 

neighboring trees for food, he worked 
his way cautiously behind Cowby. 
The glutton was nearer the edge than 
usual, having pushed his way to that 
side in order to be the first to receive 
food. Robin worked his way directly 
behind and a little under him, and 
then, exerting all his strength, lifted 
Cowby bodily and toppled him out 
into the world. 

As he went over Cowby uttered a 
most heart-rending wail of terror and 
dismay, and Robin's own heart stopped 
for a moment in fear of what he had 
done. Suppose Cowby should be 

Then he looked up. His mother 
was hovering just overhead, and 
Robin's heart, so bold a few seconds 
before, sank like lead. Had she seen? 
But of course she had; he knew that 
from the way she looked at him. Yet 
for an infinitesimal part of a second 
he fancied that he saw a twinkle in 
her eyes. But he was not sure, it was 
so elusive, and almost instantly her 
face became stern. For you know 
that mamma birds grow stern some- 
times, and they have even been known 
to punish their little ones when they 
were naughty. 

"Robin," she said, "you are getting 
to be a bold, independent bird now, 
and I can see that your wing-feathers 
are well started. And surely your 
heart has been growing stronger, ever 
since I went out after food. Let me 
feel your muscles." 

She very quietly slipped one of her 
wings under him, and an instant later 
Robin found himself struggling in 
space, with his mother's calm cry, 
"Fly, Robin; you are bold enough 
now. Show Cowby what you can do." 

Robin closed his bill firmly, even 
though he believed the next moment 
would see him crushed on the ground 
below. He would not utter a chirp 
of fear nor make a sign that he was 
afraid. And even with that awful 
sensation of falling, with his heart in 
his bill and his breath stifled, his great 
thought was not so much fear as won- 
der and horror that his mother could 
have treated him so. 

But gradually, as he went down, 
his struggling wings pressed against 

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the air and his descent became slower he noticed a shadow crossing the 
and more in a lateral direction. He ground and looked up. His mother 
was quick to take advantage of this, was just returning to the nest. As he 
and beat his wings more strongly and saw her a great sob of thankfulness 
evenly. At length he clutched des- swelled his little breast. 

At that moment he understood his 
mother as he had never understood 
her before. She did love him. He 

remembered a swift whirring of wings 
below him as he fell. His mother had 
been there with wings outspread to 
shield him in case there should be any 

perately at a small branch, to which need. 

he clung dizzily. He raised his bill suddenly and 

As he righted himself he became uttered three ecstatic notes in suc- 

conscious of a convulsive sobbing near cession. It was his first song, and 

liim, and knew that Cowby had es- what an inspiration it was to his 

caped also; and at the same instant mother! 

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By J. K. Collins 

A bleak wind blew from the turbulent sea 

And rushed around the moor; 
It rattled the casements through the house 

And shook the lock on the door. 

There was a flurry of dry leaves on the vine 
That clung to the porch and the wall, 

And a whispering murmur soft and low 
In a fir tree, dark and tall. 

As a seed fell here and a brown pod there 
In the heart of the soft, black mould, 

"We die, but we shall live again," 
Said the vine as it shook with cold. 

What though the future is virgin- veiled, 
And the past wears a widow's weed, 

And the present may wear a crown of thorns? 
Faith tranquilly sows the seed, 


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Which shall spring to life on an Easter morn, 
When the risen Christ is hailed. 

More fair than men twice heaven-born 
To the cruel cross was nailed. 


Yet He is risen! Pale lilies crown 

The altar-rail; and greens 
From sun-flecked woods and bosky dells 

Tell tales of sparkling streams. 

Great wreaths festoon the sacred walls, 

The chancel and organ loft, 
Where music peals on the morning breeze 

And bears the soul aloft. 

Sweet music, whose notes like echoes fall 
From tones of a higher sphere; 

Dropped by angels to soften the heart 
And bear away all fear. 

All things great and small praise the Lord 

And magnify Him forever. 
Christ in our hearts is risen this day, ;■ 

All doubt and fear to*sever. 


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By Will N. H«rben 

Y few folks is 
ood ez my ole 
Yardley is; no, 
she des teks de 
off'n de bush, 
sho'ly duz!" 
le speaker was 
ged negro, sit- 
in the doorway 
a ramshackle 
ty in the sub- 
urbs of Darley. I 
was taking a walk that balmy spring 
morning, and had paused to ask the 
old man a few questions about the 
families that lived in the stately, old- 
fashioned residences which lined the 
street, or rather the road, leading, with 
many a bend and angle, back to the 
more thickly populated part of the 

I found that the old man took par- 
ticular pleasure in talking of his former 
mistress, a widowed lady, who lived 
in one of the more pretentious houses 
in the neighborhood; so I determined 
to humor him, for his quaint words 
and honest black face interested me 

"She certainly has a good look," 
said I. "I saw her drive by here just 
now in her carriage with her son, a 
handsome young fellow." 

The old man took his pipe from 
between his jagged teeth and laughed 
immoderately, his bent form fairly 
quivering with amusement. 

"Shuh!" said he presently, in an 
almost patronizing tone. "WThar kin 
you come fum 'at you ain't know 
Marse Harry ain't no blood kin er ole 
Miss? He ain't no mo' 'er son 'n you 
is right now — he ain't no mo' kin ter 
'er 'n er duck is ter de hen dat hatch 
it out'n de aig. But 'twuz pow'ful 
quar how old Miss tuk up wid 'im, 

countin' how all de Yardleys wuz 
'bout sech doin's." 

" Is he an adopted son?" I asked, 
drawing nearer to him, and taking a 
seat in a chair near the doorstep. 

"Yessuh, dat it 'zactly! He's a 
'dopted son, all right." 

I signified my desire to hear the 
story and he continued: 

1 'Des atter de wah, suh, ev'ything 
in dis yer town wuz cert'nly in er baid 
fix, sho', en it wuz some time 'fo dey 
'gun ter git it straight. You ain't 
never seed nothin' lak it; some folks 
say dey never wuz sech er layin' waste 
sence de flood w'en all de wull wuz 
kivered wid water. Well, atter dey 
got in runnin' order, some nigger in 
ds black folks' chu'ch 'pose ter git up 
er darky schoolhouse. Brer Johnson, de 
cullud preacher, wus de haid uv it. He 
'low de slaves is free now en dey mus' 
hat schoolin' en one thing ernurr ter 
give urn er start. But Brer Johnson 
ain't git 'long much rapid. De white 
folks would see um all daid 'fo' dey 
gwine he'p, en mo'n dat, dey ain't 
got nuthin' lef to he'p deyse'ves; en 
mo'n half de darkies say dey don' keer 
ef de black chillun ain't hat no schoolin' 
— 'at you caynt teach um nothin', no- 
how, 'cep' ter slip up on er chicken 
roos' easy, en how ter tell er ripe 
watermelon in white folks' patch on er 
night ez dark ez er stack er black cats. 

"But it rock erlong tell, wid er liT 
lif ' fum dis white man, en er push fum 
ernurr, dey did manage ter buil' er 
schoolhouse, er mighty po' shack, but 
still er school des de same. Well, den 
dey 'gun ter look 'roun fur er school- 
teacher, but dey fin' hard wuk. None 
de quality white people here ain't 
gwine teach fur um, en none de po' 
whites ain't got 'nough sense dey- 
se'ves, en dar dey wuz. 

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"Den Brer Johnson 'gun ter write 
up Norf 'bout how he is fixed en ax 
ef he kin git er good white teacher 
downright cheap. Atter while some- 
body in New York writ 'at dey is foun' 
de ve'y pusson. Dey say she is er 
mighty fine lady en is er widder woman 
wid one HT son. She say de doctor 
is 'vise 'er ter go Souf kase she is 
sickly. She say she kin leave 'er son 
in school up Norf en will wuk reason- 
able, kase die needs money ter educate 
de boy. 

"Brer Johnson writ inn ter sen' 'er 
on. En w'en de lady is alraidy on de 
way de black people all 't once 'gun 
ter wonder whar in de wull is she gwine 
ter put up? Brer Johnson hat er long 
face w'en he went erroun 'mongst de 
white folks en state his case, but, suh, 
de white folks, en even de white 
trash, des tu'n up dey noses. 

"'Ef she gwine 'sociate wid niggers, 
let 'er live wid urn; my gracious! 
whut's de diffunce?' Dat's whut my 
ole Miss say, en I reckon she wuz 'bout 
right, kase she cert'ny do know whut's 

"Brer Johnson wuz on his haid. I 
never seed er man so wuked up; he 
wuz mos' 'stracted. Right on top uv 
it de teacher 'rived. Brer Johnson 
en me went ter de train ter meet 'er. 
You wouldn't er kotch me puttin' my 
han' in it ef 'twuzn't 'at I wuz drivin' 
er dray en I hat ter go ter haul up de 
teacher's trunk. Brer Johnson is done 
mek up his min' ter tell 'er all 'bout 
his fix, en ter offer 'er er place in his 
house tell he kin do better, but he wuz 
mighty nigh skeered out'n his senses. 

"Somehow I wuz 'spectin' t£r see er 
sorter shabby pusson, kase I didn't 
spect, atter all ole Mis6 done say, 'at 
er rail nice lady is gwine ter teach 
black chillun; but w'en dat lady got 
off'n de train en wuz standin' on de 
flatform er de kyar-shed waitin' fur 
Brer Johnson, I never wuz so s'prised. 
She wuz des beautiful, en ez pale en 
thin en delicate ez kin be. She wuz er 
liT lady, en hat big blue eyes en small 
white han's en liT feet, en wuz fixed 
up pow'ful stylish. 

"Nex' ter myse'f, I wuz sorry fur 
Brer Johnson. He tuk off his beaver 
en bowed mighty low ter 'er. Den he 

hatter come out wid his fix 'bout de 
boa'din'-place — en de lady open 'er 
eyes mighty wide. 

'"Ain't dey no place fur me in de 
whole town?'" she say. 'Mus' I tu'n 
'roun' en go back?' 

" 'No place less'n you willin' ter live 
in de same house wid cullud folks,' 
Brer Johnson say. 

"'Oh, is dat all?' de lady say, en 
she smile' mighty nice. 'Oh, dat 
don't mek no odds ; I'll go des anywhar 
you is er mind ter put me. I ain't hat 
no idea dis yer town wuz so crowded. 
Is sumpin' onusual gwine on?' 

"But Brer Johnson tell 'er no, it's 
'bout ez common, he b'lieves. Den 
de teacher say she reckon it is kase so 
many houses wuz been burn down 
endurin' de war, en families is hat ter 
sorter crowd together, but Brer John- 
son ain't tell ef 'tis er no, en des start 
to'ds his house wid 'er grip-sack in 
his han'. 

"Well, she wuz fix' up in er nice 
HT room in Brer Johnson's house, en 
she open' de school de nex' day. But 
she wuz sho 'nough s'prised w'en dey 
ain't er sign er er white woman come 
nigh 'er. She did look out'n place, 
sho' 'nough, en I wuz sorry fur 'er. 
At fust she went on Sunday ter de 
white folks' church, but she didn't 
git 'quainted wid anybody, en so she 
lef' off en stayed at home. One day 
I hear 'er tell Brer Johnson dat de 
people up Norf ain't hat de leas' idea 
'bout how much de white people in de 
Souf bin hatter go thoo wid, losin' all 
de things dey hat, en deir kinfolks 
bein' kilt up in de war. She 'low 
'twuz des natchul fur inn ter feel hard 
to'ds strangers, but dat de time wuz 
sho' ter come w'en de Norf en Souf is 
gwine go han' in han'. 

"But in 'bout er mont' she hat got 
so thin en 'er cough wuz so bad she 
couldn't teach no mo', en fust thing 
anybody know she is down sick in bed 
en caynt set up. Brer Johnson dis- 
miss de school fur vacation en set 
'bout tryin' ter git de school teacher 
well. But she got wuss en. wuss en 
des kep' callin' fur 'er liT boy 'at wuz 
up Norf. She say she is willin' ter 
die ef de boy des wuzn't widout 

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"One day atter I seed 'er thoo de 
winder, lyin' on de baid so pale en 
sick, my ole Miss say, 'Sambo, whut 
dis I yer 'bout de darky school done 
tu'n out en hat vacation?' 

"I tol' 'er it wuz kaze Miz Watson 
is mighty sick in baid. 

"'Sick!' ole Miss say, lak she is 
s'prised. 'Sambo, you say dat woman 
sick in baid over in dat Larkin John- 
son's house? I ain't never laid eyes 
on 'er, but I yer tell she is er weakly- 
lookin' woman. Dis is cert'n'y bad, 
en so far away fum 'er home en all — 
whut kin er got in 'er ter come down 
dis way, I wonder?' 

"Ole Miss looked mighty oneasy 
somehow in de face. She glance 
'roun' de walls er de room. Over de 
chimney-bo'd wuz de big picture er 
Marster, en on his bofe sides wuz my 
two young marsters, all urn wid de 
rebel newniform on, en all free of 'em 
kilt in de war, en ole Miss lef' alone 
wid 'er gray haid in dat big house whar 
dem chfilun uster play en cut up 'long 
time back. Why, suh, dem two boys 
wuzn't mo'n chillun w'en dey lef' fer 
de war, en ole Miss never could fin' 
even deir bodies, dough she did fetch 
Marster home, atter she hat 'im dug 
up 'way down Souf . Ez she wuz 
lookin' at de pictures I seed ole Miss 
'gin ter cry lak she al'ays did ; den she 
seem lak she wuz in er big struggle wid 
'erse'f. She tu'n 'er back on old 
Marster en de two young marsters, 
en she say, mighty choky: 

"'Sambo, is dis woman in down- 
right need er he'p?' 

'"Miss Hattie, I b'lieve she is,' I 
tol' 'er, 'en she seem lak er nice sort 
er woman, dough she didn't know 
much 'bout niggers.' 

"Den ole Miss say, 'Dat'll do, Sam- 
bo; you go'n 'bout yo' wuk.' Dat's 
all she say, but she wuz in dead 
earnes', kase 'er voice wuz in er 
tremble, en seem lak she ain't gwine 
let 'er'sef look at de pictures over de 

"Well, suh, insider half er hour 
Sallie, we-all's cook, hat de nices' 
waiter er cookin' raidy you ever 
smell, kivered all over wid er white 
cloth, en I hatter tek it over ter Brer 
Johnson's fer de sick school teacher. 

En 'fo' I lef', one er we-all's black gals 
fetched over er big bokay er ole Mis' 
nices' roses, whut she ain't never 
picked fur nobody 'cep' ter put on 
Marster's grave; en ter cap de stack, 
suh, I met we-all's doctor gwine in 
Brer Johnson's gate ezlwuzcomin'out. 

"But ez bad luck 'u'd have it, de 
nex' day ole Miss git er letter 'at some 
er 'er kinfolks down in Cha'leston is 
right bad off, en she hatter tek de 
train right erway. But she is done 
lef' wud fur we-alls' doctor ter see atter 
de teacher en she gwine ter pay fur it 
all, en she give Sallie 'structions ter 
keep sendin' 'er cookin' over till de 
teacher is on 'er feet once mo'. 

"But de doctor look mighty ser'ous 
all de time; en one day he say ter Brer 
Juhnson 'at de lady is tekm' on so 
'bout her son, dat de boy ought ter 
come, kase his maw ain't got long ter 
live. So dey writ fer de boy, but dey 
ain't let on lak his maw so ve'y bad. 
I went ter de train wid Brer Johnson 
ter meet 'im. His name wuz Harry; 
he favored his maw, en cert'n'y wuz 
de fines'-loolrin' chile ever you laid 
eyes on. He hat his maw's big blue 
eyes, en his hair wuz des lak er pile er 
yaller spider-webs all down on his 
back, en his face wuz ez bright ez er 
new silver dollar. Me'n Brer Johnson 
went ter 'im des ez he stepped out'n 
de kyar on de groun'. 

'"I is lookin' fer de Reverent Mr. 
Johnson's,' he say, mighty perlite. 

" 'Dat my name, suh,' Brer Johnson 
say, but dat boy look lak he think 
Brer Johnson is tryin' ter wuk some 
funny trick on 'im. 

" 'I b'lieve mother did write sumpin' 
'bout you is er cullud man,' he say 
terrectly, en widout any mo' ter-do 
he went on wid us. 

"'How is my mother?' he ax Brer 
Johnson, ez we wuz gwine thoo de 
raggety part er town whar Brer John- 
son en de niggers mos'ly lived. 

"Brer Johnson ain't say much 'cep' 
he hope die gwine pull thoo, he hopes, 
wid 'tention, en prayer, en plenty er 
trus' in de bounteous Lawd, who hat 
plenty er health ter give erway, ez 
well ez sickness en sech 'flictibns ter 
dispense dat comes de same ter all 
kinds alike. 

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"I seed ez many pitiful sights ez de 
nex' one, I reckin, but w'en dat fine- 
dressed KT feller come ter Brer John- 
son's HT tore-down house en see whar 
his maw is erlivin', I 'clar' 'fo' Gracious, 
I wuz bleedin' inside fur 'im. He 
look' 'roun' quick at de place en his 
eyes got full er tears. He kinder 
walked unsteady fum de gate ter de 
po'ch en he pulled his UT derby hat 
down over his eyes. 'She did (Us fur 
me!' I heerd 'im say ter hisse'f, while 
Brer Johnson is gone in ter tell urn 
he come. En de boy wuz lef' lookin' 
thoo his wet eyes up de street whar 
dere wuzn't nuffin' but nigger shanties, 
wid pig-pens in de ya'ds en broke- 
down fences. 

"Seeker sight ez tuk place at dat 
sick bed wuz pitiful, sho' 'nough. Aunt 
Hallie say de po' woman des helt out 
'er arms en tuk de li'P boy in urn en 
helt 'im er long time 'dout speakin'. 
But de boy show de man in 'im, en no 
mistake. 'Steader cryin' en tekin' 
on, he des set dar on de side dat bed en 
smile' en tol' his maw whut dey all 
Is doin* up Norf, en how she is gwine 
git well en sech-lak. But de doctor 
come en ax de young Marster not ter 
talk too much ter de lady; so he went 
out in de ya'd, en anybody kin see he 
know he is gwine lose his mother. 
He ain't spoke ter none er de chillun 
in de ya'd, but des walked up en down 
wid his haid hung down. 

"One day, 'bout free days atter he 
come, I met 'im in de front ya'd, des 
ez he lef' his maw ter tek er sleep. 

" 'Sambo,' he say, en his th'oat wuz 
chuck full wid grief. 'Sambo, I see 
'at no white folks ain't visited my 
mother. I don't lak ter go t'um kase 
I see how dey feel, but I know she is 
gwine die soon en it would be sech er 
comfort ter hat some good Christian 
white lady by 'er side. I'm sho' dey 
don't know my mother er dey 'ud 
lay prejudice down en comfort 'er. 
She ain't never been fotch up dis way.' 

"Den I up en tol' 'im how curi's de 
white folks is, en he say, 'Yes,' en he 
reckon it's natchul, kase dey muster 
hat lots ter bear up under. Den he 
ax me who 'tis been sendin' so many 
nice cookin's ter his maw, en I tol' 'im 
it wuz my ole Miss, en 'at she is been 

off down Souf but des 'bout er hour 
ergo got back, case I seed 'er ca'ge 
pass 'long de street. 

"He hung down his haid er li'P 
while, den he say: 'Sambo, I'd lak 
ter walk over dar en thank de lady f ur 
whut she is done; mother is too sick, 
en I mus' do it. Will you show me 
de way?' 

"I tuk 'im ter we-all's house. Ole 
Miss wuz so busy unpackin' 'er things 
'at she ain't hat time ter ax 'bout de 
sick school teacher. I lef' de li'P boy 
on er seat on de veranda en went en 
tole ole Miss dat er boy want ter see 'er, 
but I ain't tole 'er who 'tis. She laid 
down 'er wuk en went out ter whar 
he is. She smiled mighty nice en give 
'im 'er han'. Den she say: 

'"You is er stranger yer, I s'pose? 
I b'lieve I ain't 'member yo' face; so 
many young folks is growin' up out 
er my sight yer late.' 

"Dat city boy look lak er young 
prince er standin' dar wid his derby in 
his han' en his knee-britches en black 
stockin's er shinin' in de sun; I seed 
ole Miss wuz pleased wid his looks. 

"'Yessum,' he say; he ain't been in 
de town long, en dat his mother is de 
teacher in Brer Johnson's school. 

"I seed ole Miss' face change lak 
somebody strack 'er in de face wid er 
wet rag. She straighten' 'erse'f up, 
en ain't ax 'im ter hat er seat, but she 
ain't furgit ter be perlite; she mek lak 
she is studyin', den she say : 'Yes, yes ; 
I know de lady by reputation, but I 
ain't never hat de pleasure er 'er 
'quaintance. She wuz not ve'y well 
er few days ago, I b'lieve. I bin off 
on er trip, en des got back. I wuz 
des on de p'int er sendin' over ter ax 
'bout 'er. I hope she is plumb well 

"Dat boy des stood 'fo' ole Miss des 
ez straight ez er sprout er sourwood. 
Look lak w'en it comes ter pride he is 
able ter give ole Miss 'bout ez much 
ez she sen'. 

"'My mother is no better,' he say, 
mighty cole. 'Sambo tole me how 
good you is bin ter 'er, en so I is come 
ter thank you fur my mother, kase 
she won't be able ter do it 'erse'f.' 

'"No better!' Dat is all de wud 
ole Miss git out. 

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4 "She is dyin',' de boy say, but he 
choked up en tu'n en looked over de 

"Den ole Miss broke down. 
'Dyin'?' she say, mighty full er pity. 
'My po' boy! en is you come all dis 
way fum home ter see yo' maw die? — 
en no white folks 'roun' 'er! Oh, my 
Lawd! furgive me — en dyin' in sech 
er spot!' 

"Dat de fus time dat boy quail, but 
ole Miss* voice wuz so full er kindness 
dat it struck 'im like lightnin' do er 
saplin'. He shook all over en den bust 
out cryin' lak his heart is broke, en he 
caynt stan' nar nurr straw on his back. 

"Whut you reckon ole Miss do? 
She look* completely outdone ; 'er face 
wuz des streamin' wid tears. She 
retched out 'er arms en drawed de 
boy ter 'er breas'. She breshed back 
his yaller hair en kissed 'im on de face 
time en ergin, en cryin' so she cayn't 
git er wud er comfort out. She say 
he is look lak 'er younges' boy did 
w'en he wuz liT. 

"Ter mek er long story short, ole 
Miss set down en writ notes ter de 
white folks roun' de town 'bout de 
teacher, en dey des Utterly swarmed 
in Brer Johnson's y'ad en house; no- 
body kin do ernough, en nobody could 
do er bit er good. Ole Miss ordered 
de doctor ter hat 'er fotch over ter 
we-all's house, but he say it is too late, 
she is too fur gone. 

"Des 'fo' she died ole Miss wuz at 
de baidside, Aunt Hallie say, en de 
po' lady des kep' 'er eyes on 'er son, 

looldn' mighty wistful en troubled, 
but she couldn't git 'er voice ter speak. 
But ole Miss understan', en she ben' 
down en say: 

"'You is troubled in yo' min' 'bout 
yo' liT boy, I know.' 

"De teacher des nod 'er haid en 'er 
eyes got full, she wuz tryin' so hard 
ter speak. Den ole Miss say: 

' "I never is loved any chile sence I los' 
my own boys in de war lak I do dis 
one. I ain't got no kinfolks lef', en if 
you will let me, I'll tek Harry en raise 
4m en 'dopt 'im fer my own.' 

"Folks 'at wuz dar say dey never 
is seed anybody dis side de Pearly 
Gates so happy. Dey say de po' lady's 
face wuz des shinin' wid joy en she 
died ez easy ez er liT tired chile er- 
drappin' off ter sleep. 'Twuz des sech 
er day ez dis is, suh, en late in de 
evenin'. Seem lak Gre't Marster is 
lay de wind en sen' down de dusk ez 
saft ez de moonshine in answer ter de 
prayers uv de folks. Seem lak dey 
wa'n't no diffunce dat day 'twix' 
de white race en de black race, en 
black en white wuz sad tergerr. Dey 
give 'er er big funeral in de white folks' 
chu'ch, en dey called on Brer Johnson 
ter pray, de fus' time I ever heerd tell 
er sech er thing. De big bell in de 
steeple tolled en all de stores in de 
town closed, en white en black went 
ter de graveya'd. Marse Harry is 
tu'n out ter be ole Miss' mainstay, en 
des worships de tracks she meks. 
You al'ays see inn tergerr lak des now 
in de ca'ge." 


The day's gold glory faints and fades 
Adown the far gray colonnades; 

Doves wing the languid air across; 
And while descend the twilight shades 

More spectral grows the hanging moss. 

Long shadows gather gropingly 
Round slender pine and live oak tree, 

And to a mockingbird's last bars 
Blossom, in slow serenity, 

In night's blue pool, the lily stars. 

Clinton Scollard. 

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By Lenora Newman Dennison 

P the steep hill of 
life there trudged 
the figure of a wom- 
an, and close be- 
side her walked the 
guarding forms of 
Youth and Faith 
and Honor and 
Hope. And Youth was fair to look 
upon and walked alone before the 
other three, while Faith gave one 
guiding hand to Hope and one to 
Honor. Sometimes the way led 
through fair flowered paths and the 
wonder of a bright world's music filled 
the air; and then again, storms beat 
down upon the road and the wind 
blew in angry gusts against the climb- 
ing forms, but Youth moved buoyantly 
beneath all bickering winds and the 
others followed as she led. And 
sometimes the world was clouded over 
and the rain poured out of the gray 
sky, beating with insistent, gloomy 
clamor upon the struggling pUgrims. 
And yet, so long as the woman 
walked ahead they needs must follow, 
and Youth led Faith and Hope laugh- 
ing through the gloom of the storm, 
while Honor walked beside them with 
proud, upright head. 

But farther and farther up the hill the 
way grew more and more wearisome, 
and Youth began to stumble and tire, 
and her buoyancy lasted no longer; and 
then, at last, she halted at the tinning 
of a road and the woman went on 
without her — a little less happy, a 
little less care-free, but yet, in spite of 
the sadness of bidding good-bye to 
one of her retinue, almost content in 
that Honor and Faith and Hope re- 
mained with her. 

And through the storms that came 
in the days that followed, Faith 
pointed out a glimmer of glory at the 

end of the long path; through the 
gloom of sunless days Hope cheered 
her on the way, while always Honor 
walked a stern, purely-clad guardian 
of the moments that made up her 

Then one by one the pilgrims who 
had walked beside the woman began 
to out-distance her or drop behind. 
And, losing them, she clung more 
closely to the three faithful who went 
the steep way with her. Few there 
were to remain, and to those few who 
had so long trod the same path, she 
made known her guardians — Faith 
and Hope and Honor. And Faith 
smiled upon them and Hope saw won- 
drous beauty in them, while Honor 
gave to them the calm trust of her 
friendship and walked on with steady 

There came one day a storm which 
poured with such terrific force that 
it halted every pilgrim but the woman 
and one other, and when the clouds 
lifted and the sun beat once more upon 
the hill, they two were left alone save 
for Faith and Honor and Hope. And 
the one other helped the woman over 
grievous ways and pushed sharp stones 
aside from her some-time bruised feet 
and Faith smiled on him with her clear 
eyes and Hope's heart beat high as 
she walked beside the proud, unfalter- 
ing form of Honor. 

The rains began to sing songs to the 
woman of a grave far back upon the 
hill — the grave where Youth lay 
buried. And so softly and drearily 
the rain whispered its sad music, the 
woman paused to listen. And the one 
walking beside her looked askance 
upon her languor, and tired of waiting 
for her, begged Faith to go on the way 
with him. Faith looked doubtingly 
at her whom he had guarded — then, 

Digitized by 




tempted by her quiet and by the in- 
sistent wooing of the other — he went 
away. And when the rain had ceased 
its song and the dirge over the grave 
of Youth was through its echoing, the 
woman woke from her dream to find 
that Faith was gone, and without him 
the future lay dark and Hope's heart 
lay heavy. But in the gloom Honor 
boldly took the lead, and with little 
brightness and much sadness, they 
trudged on the wearisome way. And 
after awhile they came to a new-made 
grave, and Honor winced as she passed 
it by, while Hope lingered to shed 
bitter tears over the sleeping place of 
Faith. And close beside the drooping 
form of the sad woman Honor and 
Hope whispered to each other of the 
graves they had left behind, iand to the 
woman the winds wailed requiems 
and the rains sang dirges for what had 
gone out of her life. And when Hope 
drooped, Honor held her to the path, 
and through the sadness of the long 
days kept a. spark of life flickering in 
her. But in vain she whispered cheery 
things; Hope's heart was bleeding; 
all that might else have been sunlight 
was shadowed by the memory of the 
two graves — the sleeping places of 
Youth and Faith. And while Youth 
had died of weariness and Faith had 
been murdered, Hope was wasting 
away with a broken heart. And with- 
out her the woman toiled on, aided 
only by the urging of Honor, who 
walked uprightly beside her. 

Then came the day on which Hope 
died, and with their own bleeding 
hands they dug her a grave and over 
it they lingered for a long, long while. 
And the sun came out no more — the 

flowers were all long since dead — the 
winds were chill and damp and even 
in the gray gloom of the distance they 
could see no glimpse of the glory which 
Youth and Faith and Hope had once 
pointed out. But Honor took the 
woman by the hand, and together they 
went on the way. They looked neither 
to the right nor to the left but climbed 
to reach the summit of the hill of life 
— trusting that on its height the spirits 
of Faith and Youth and Hope would 
be waiting for them. And Honor 
was brave in the midst of all the 
dangers that beset the way, and clung 
closely to the tired form of the woman 
— lifting and almost carrying her at 
times, over the pitfalls half hidden 
from them. And when the woman 
listened to the song of the wind and 
the rains and dreamed of the graves 
she had left on the hillside, and, 
dreaming, would fain have lingered, 
Honor dragged her on with cruel care 
and would not listen to her plaints. 
And then at last one day they came to 
the top of the hill, and far across its 
stretch there lay a land of wondrous 
light. But with the end of the strug- 
gle the woman's heart stopped its 
beating, and in the arms of Honor she 
lay in her last sleep. And as she 
slumbered, there came across the land 
the fair figures of Youth and Hope 
and Faith, and they lifted her tenderly 
and carried her through the flowers 
that blossomed upon the way toward 
the land of wondrous light. And far 
down the hill the wind wailed and the 
rains whispered mournful lullabies 
over the graves of the pilgrims and 
the guardian spirits who had fallen 
upon the wearisome way. 

Digitized by 



By Mary Hunt Affleck 

AR'S desolation had 
fallen heavily on 
Kentucky, and Har- 
rodsburg, my native 
town, was filled with 
sick and wounded 
from the fatal field 
of Perryville. 

Food, except of 
the coarsest kind, 
had become very 
scarce, and every 
delicacy was hoarded in Southern 
homes for our dear boys in gray. 
Sugar was out of reach, and flour 
was used only on rare occasions. 

All public buildings were occupied 
as hospitals, and many private houses 
were filled with the wounded. A 
number had been brought to our own 
home, where my mother ministered 
to them with loving hands all through 
the dreary winter. 

As spring opened those who had 
reached a state of convalescence crept 
about in the sunshine, many of them 
with useless limbs dangling between 
rudely made crutches. 

The Episcopal church was the only 
one in town which was not used as a 
hospital, and members of all churches 
worshiped there. It was a small, 
though very beautiful edifice, and as 
Easter approached we hoarded our 
early flowers to contribute to the 
decorations. Of course in that cold 
climate spring blossoms were rare; 
only the crocus, the jonquil and the 
hyacinth brightened our dooryards. 
These, alas, were broken daily to lay in 
some poor soldier's death-chilled fin- 
gers. We saved all we could, though, 
and hunted the surrounding country for 
greenery, until we had a brave collec- 
tion of bough and bloom. The Easter 
services were conducted by the venera- 

ble and beloved Bishop Smith, and 
many a communicant wore a coat of 
faded gray. 

Strange to tell, every woman in that 
poverty-stricken town who attended 
church that day had a new bonnet. 
They were all evolved from treasured 
scraps of silk and velvet, and many 
of them adorned with priceless lace 
from old boxes of heirlooms. 

Elegant though antique dresses were 
also apparent in the congregation, 
each one modeled with some attempt 
at the prevailing style, and worn with 
the elegance of the women of the Old 
South. The belle of that day could not 
affordacalicodressat seventy-five cents 
a yard, though she wore with inherited 
grace the costly costumes of the 
grandmother who had known Clay 
and Calhoun. 

But there was something more im- 
portant to be considered by the chil- 
dren of the town than new bonnets 
or silken attire, namely, Easter eggs. 
The few hens that had not been con- 
fiscated by the enemy or used for the 
sick, were too depleted in flesh to 
contribute to the annual amusement. 
It fell to our old black Mammy to be, 
like necessity, "the mother of inven- 
tion." She was determined we should 
have our Easter party though the 
house was full of sick soldiers and the 
pantry empty of delicacies. 

Our own mother's remonstrance 
was useless, for was she not, too, one 
of Mammy's "chillun," and had her 
childhood ever lacked its Easter par- 

"You jes' go long, Mistis, an' ten' 
to dem sick soldiers, an' trus' yo' ol' 
Mammy to fix things. Our chillun 
is boun' to have dem aigs an' de 
pleasure an' de comp'ny." 

But where were the eggs to come 

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from, and where could we have an 
Easter party, when we were not al- 
lowed to walk heavily over the thresh- 
old or play upon the wide porch 
because of the sick men within? 

After many promises from Mammy, 
however, that the house should not be 
disturbed, mother reluctantly con- 
sented to have us invite our young 
companions to an Easter celebration. 

How well I remember that lovely 
afternoon — the cloudless sky, the am- 
ber air, and the green reaches of wind- 
dimpled bluegrass! Mammy had 
promised to take us at a certain hour 
to the place where she had " fixed our 
party," and we, with great confidence 
in her ' 'fixing" abilities, had silently 
perched ourselves in the high-backed 
chairs of the long hall to patiently 
await her summons. As the old 
corner clock struck three, she ap- 
peared at the back door, dressed in 
her Sunday clothes and whitest tur- 
ban, and gave the beckoning signal. 

Swiftly, but noiselessly, we tiptoed 
by the rooms where the sick men lay, 
through the sunny yard down a wind- 
ing path, beyond the lilac-scented 
garden, intQ the old apple orchard, 
where every tree was athrob with the 
music of Easter birds. It stood upon 
a green hillside that sloped gently to 
a mossy spring, whose clear waters 
trickled away through the emerald 
distance in a stream of silver beauty. 

Under the wide branches of one of 
the largest trees was a long table, that 
brought our excitement to the cul- 
minating point of merry shouts, for 
we knew its snowy cover hid the 
Easter dainties. 

Soon our little guests began to 
arrive (met and marshaled out by 
Mammy with stately courtesy), all 
arrayed in something smart for Easter. 
Here a renewed dress, there a mother's 
girlhood sash, or perhaps a real Leg- 
horn hat, brimstone bleached and 
adorned with a bunch of flowers from 
grandmother's ball dress. 

We were indeed a merry company, 
and when egg hunting time came we 
ran up and down the long hillside, 
among the ancient trees, with perfect 
faith in finding the hidden treasures; 

for had not Mammy, who never de- 
ceived us, said they were there? And 
we really found them — those marvel- 
ous eggs, made from the syrup of the 
sugar maple that grew by dear old 
Mammy's cabin door. When Feb- 
ruary snows were melting she had col- 
lected the sap by making a hole in 
the old tree and thrusting a cane into 
its golden heart. Through many a 
frosty night she had boiled the syrup 
until it sugared, and then poured it 
into small white gourds for our Easter 
eggs; these she adorned with dyes of 
roots and berries, in a style that was 
high art to her young admirers, and 
no children of the White House ever 
enjoyed an egg rolling more than we 
did that war-time Easter. 

Mammy had been carefully in- 
structed in a Christian household, and 
as the afternoon waned, she gathered 
us about her, and told with simple 
eloquence the story of the cross. 
When she lifted the cover from our 
Easter table she solemnly repeated, 

"The Lord is risen," 

And the rosy lips of the happy children 

"He is risen indeed!" 

How vividly that scene appears be- 
yond life's clouds of time and sorrow ! 
The green hillside, the merry children, 
sporting in the fragrant atmosphere, 
and the beautiful old apple trees 
flushed by the pinkness of early bloom. 

And Mammy serves again the Easter 
favors, candied cherries and golden 
apples, and wonderful white flannel 
rabbits, and dainty cakes, syrup- 
sweetened and rich with the dried 
fruits and nuts of Kentucky. Through 
the blue distance the setting sun casts 
a roseate tint over the green hills 
and the gray old town, where camp 
fires shine and the soldiers' evening 
bugles blow. 

Oh, changeful time! Those happy, childish 
Have long ago ceased laughing in their 
The world has drowned them with its dreary 
And Mammy stands with the redeemed 

Digitized by 



By Katharine M. Trimble 

GOME right in, Miss Jane; I'm 
shore proud and glad to see 
you," welcomed Airs. Brown, 
as she bustled about, relieved 
her caller of bonnet and shawl and set 
a comfortable chair closer to the 
cheery wood fire, rendered necessary 
by the biting winds unusually chilling 
for November in southern Mississippi. 

"I heard you wasn't to say well, 
and I thought I'd drive over this 
morning and see how you was comin' 
along," explained Miss Jane Smithers, 
extending her hands toward the fire. 
She loosened her small shoulder cape, 
inevitably donned the first day of 
October and worn straight through 
until June forced it back to oblivion 
and moth balls, smoothed her sleek 
hair, worn Madonna fashion, and 
settled herself for a good visit. 

"Aunt Sophie was a-tellin' us Sun- 
day you was a-lookin' a little peeked, 
and then we heard you had to let all 
the late tomatoes jus' hang on the 
vines and spoil on 'count of not bein' 
bodily able to put 'em up," continued 
Miss Smithers, all sympathy for such 
a misfortune. 

Mrs. Brown gave the fire a sharp 
stirring, which sent the sparks flying 
up the chimney in showers. She 
busied herself a moment or two with 
the hearth broom before she spoke, 
which, when she did„was with a comic 
pathos indescribably ludicrous, but 
which made no impression upon her 
caller, who was bent upon being 
sympathetic and dolorous. 

"Jane Smithers," began Mrs. Brown, 
"I don't know whether to laugh or 
cry when I think of my ailment — " 

"I wouldn't laugh," interrupted 
Bliss Jane; "there ain't no use laughin' 
to the jaws o' death." 

"Oh, I don't hardly think my 

trouble will hardly result so fatal as 
that," Mrs. Brown assured her. "It 
ain't to say a bodily ailment, anyhow. 
It's what they call a mental trouble; 
it's seated in the mind, Jane Smithers, 
and it ain't my mind, neither. If 
'twas I wouldn't be two seconds in 
uprootin* it." 

"My goodness, Mis' Brown, you 
don't say 'Squire Ephraim is about 
to go deranged!" Miss Jane's lean 
hands flew up in amazement 

"No, it ain't no insanity as is in 
this family," denied Mrs. Brown. 
"Miss Jane, it's psychology" 

Miss Jane's jaw dropped, but she 
made no remark. 

"It's psychology" reiterated Mrs. 
Brown, "that's about to be the death 
o' me — that is, figgeratively speakin'." 

Miss Smithers drew a deep breath 
and gave her friend an ominous look. 
"It's a awful soundin' disease," quoth 

"Soundin'!" exclaimed the other. 
"Why, the sound ain't nothing com- 
pared to the awfulness of the things 
it makes you do. Why, Jane, when 
this psychology once gets a holt on 
you, you can't sleep o' nights; your 
appetite kinder refuses the things 
you've been raised on. Pshaw ! Fried 
chicken, and punkins, and buttermilk, 
and sweet potatoes, and hot biscuit 
jus' ain't nothin' to a pore mortal 
that's afflicted with this psychologi- 
cal truck. They can't eat nothin' but 
jus' a little toast and chocolate-tea 
all fixed up on a waiter, with a spanlrin' 
clean napkin and a little boquet of 
flowers a-peepin' out of another nap- 
kin, and they want the waiter carried 
to their room where they can eat un- 

"Mis' Brown," said Miss Jane sol- 
emnly, "as awful a thing as a doctor 

Digitized by 




and a knife is, still I'd advise you to 
be operated on and have the gnawin' 
thing cut out before I'd have the life 
wore out o' me this way." 

4 'You don't understand—" 

4 'Oh, yes, I do! Didn't my half- 
brother John, that lives up to Natchez, 
have a girl that had psychology and 
nothing wouldn't do her no good till 
a doctor give her something to put 
her dead asleep, and then he cut the 
achin', seethin', hurtin' thing out." 

44 Shorely you're a-thinkin' of ap- 
pendicitus," remonstrated Mrs. Brown. 
"I've heard of 'em havin' them cut 

44 Well, 'twas psychology or appendi- 
citus, or somethin' with a si to it." 

,4 I haven't explained to you about 
this psychology, Miss Jane, and I 
haven't made you understand what 
kind of a thing it is. It's all in the 
mind, the soul, or whatever the vital 
of vitals is called." Mrs. Brown en- 
deavored to elucidate as much as lay 
within her power. 4 4 It ain't me that's 
got it, nor Pa, neither; it's Dotty, our 
daughter, and pore thing, the way she 
does go on. Her greatest craving is 
for 'Thespian laurels — '" 

4 'Well, I'd gratify that, if I was you 
and Ephraim Brown," broke in Miss 
Jane. 4 4 You could order a dozen from 
one of the city greenhouses, and they'd 
look real nice planted on each side of 
the walk." 

"Oh, that ain't what Dotty wants," 
Mrs. Brown made haste to explain. 
"It's laurels on her brow, laurels at 
her feet and laurels on her tombstone, 
as near as I can make out." 

"Shoo, there ain't no sense in that; 
she'd better plant 'em on the lawn and 
keep that nice and pretty, and stop 
talkin' about tombstones I Has she 
come home from Dee's folks' house?" 

"Yes, Dotty's come home," replied 
Mrs. Brown, "and I must say I can't 
make out what ails the child. She's 
been subject to little spells of the 
dumps ever since that first session 
she was at Miss de Vere's Select Semi- 
nary. 'Profound melancholia,' Dotty 
called these spells, and once in a while 
Pa gets kinder worried over her starva- 
tion diet and sad talk, but ever since 
that first month at school when she 

wrote home to Pa and me, 4 I awoke 
one morning and found myself Doro- 
thea,' I've in a measure cured myself 
of anxiety over her fancies; I know 
that the remedies used for all her other 
ailments wouldn't be no kind o' use 
with this 'profound melancholia.' The 
spells will have to run their course till 
she gets something to be melancholy 
over shore enough — a not overly good 
husband and may be a colicky baby 
or two to be up with o' nights and not 
see no peace with for days at a time. 
I prophesy that such conditions as 
them would have the effect of leveling 
that pompadour mightily and, better 
still, of leveling the head that s'ports 
the pompadour. Dotty's a good child 
at heart, and it provokes me that — 
Ma'am? This last trip o' hers?" 

"Well, yes, since you've noticed it 
yourself, I don't mind sayin' that I do 
think things happened on this last trip 
to kinder cure her a little of her flighti- 
ness, after the feelin' of hurt pride has 
wore off Land knows, it's time! 
Miss Jane, you don't know what a 
siege I've went through with this 
summer with Dotty till Pa sold his 
cotton at nine cents and so was able 
to let her buy a lot o' clothes this fall 
and go on this trip you've just named." 

Mrs. Brown hitched her chair a 
trifle closer to her caller and resumed 
her narrative in a lower tone of voice: 
"Since Dotty got to be Dorothea 
Chalmers Brown, and since she 'got 
her pore little noggin so full o' pure 
English and psychology at Miss de 
Vere's, it's been all me and Pa could 
do to keep her from leaving home to 
be a stage-actress. She says she's 
always been a stage-actress, ever since 
a thousand years ago, when she, in 
another body but the same sperrit 
that's now Itotty Brown, stood before 
the Roman populace and received 
tributes of admiration in such thunder- 
ous applause that not only the seven 
hills echoed and re-echoed, but heav- 
en's own angry thunder was aroused 
to jealousy and lifted up its angry 
voice in protest." 

"My Lord, that's sinful!" protested 
Miss Smithers, "thinkin' she could 
spite the elements." 

"Well, that was a thousand years 

Digitized by 




ago, and things was different in them 
days." Mrs. Brown's mild eyes twin- 
kled with gentle sarcasm. 

"But Dotty's a heap older than just 
a thousand years. In Egypt she was 
a princess and used to walk out to the 
banks o' the Nile of a night and 'look 
up and down, up and down, always 
seeking never findin , . ,,, 

"What was she a-huntin' for so 
stiddy?" inquired Miss Smithers. 

4 'Her affinity!" 

"Her which t" 

"Her affinity, that is, so I heard her 
explain, the twin-flame which was one 
with her since the great First Cause 
sent them out together to be one in 
joy and one in sorrow, through all the 
incarnations till they slept together 
in Nirvana." 

"Meanin' a manf" in a horrified 

44 Of course." 

44 Why — why, Mis' Brown, it ain't 
nice talk for a girl." 

44 It's Buddhistic, though, if it ain't 
nice," replied Mrs. Brown. 44 She 
caught the Buddhy craze along with 
the psychology: and oh! she's nigh 
pestered the life out o' me a-huntin' 
for her 'affinity' in this 'present in- 

44 He don't live 'round here nowhere 
in Mississippi Bottom, I reckon?" 

44 He might. He might be a drug- 
clerk, a tobacco drummer or even a 
water-nymph, for all she knows," ex- 
plained Mrs. Brown, "and he's bound 
to know her when he sees her for, you 
see, they've been keepin' company for 
a million years." 

44 It ain't sensible," commented Miss 

44 In some periods, when marryin' 
was the fashion, they was married, 
then again they wasn't — " 

4 'Mis' Brown, it ain't decent!" 

44 Oh, it's 'Buddhy,'" replied Mrs. 

Miss Smithers' thin nose, which 
clearly proclaimed spinsterhood, gave 
vent to a supercilious sniff. "Well, 
before I'd be a-runnin' up and down 
the levees of a night a-lookin' for a 
man — " 

"But them psychological sperrits 
don't seem to think of them things 

the way we do here in Nance's Cross- 
roads," hastily interposed Mrs Brown. 
"You see they are twin-flames, and 
whichever one happens to get lighted 
first has leave to look around in the 
dark for the other one, be the first one 
male or female flame." 

"Does Dorothea know where 'bouts 
to look for her feller right at this 
present time?" asked the spinster, 
beginning to perceive the convenience 
of such an arrangement, and wonder- 
ing if "psychological sperrits" had the 
exclusive right of peering around in the 
darkness in search of twin-flames. 

"Oh, when she was 'long about six- 
teen or seventeen she thought every 
blessed one of 'em around here was it 
till she took 'em each separate and 
sounded 'em all. They didn't none 
seem to know they was psychologi- 
cal sperrits, created in the Year One, 
doomed to journey through many 
lives a-sufferin' and a-sorrowin' and 
restin' not till they reached Nirvana. 
They're mostly all Baptists around 
here, you know, and people thought 
strange o' Dotty 'cause she spoke of 
herself as a 'Buddhist,' and some of 
'em ast me if Buddhists wasn't off- 
shoots of the Campbull — oh, excuse 
me, Miss Jane! I clean forgot you're 
a Cam—" 

"I ain't!" warmly. 

"Well, to continue my narrative; 
didn't none o' the young men 'round 
here seem to be that same prince Dotty 
looked up and down the Nile for, 
nor the 'Roman senator whose im- 
maculate toga' she used to watch for 
of a evenin' when she'd be a-settin' 
out on the front porch — 'peristyle,' I 
believe she called it. Of course, the 
flame's nose and hair and eyes didn't 
always have to look the same, for 
when he was a prince in Egypt he was 
almost a mulatto in complexion ; then 
once in Greece he was fair complected ; 
and in Rome he was bronzy lookin', 
with a big nose; but the soul shinin' 
through the flame's eyes must always 
be the same, and it was the soul Dotty 
was a-goin' by." 

"I reckon she kinder took this trip 
up to north Mississippi a-seekin' him," 
remarked Miss Smithers tentatively. 

Mrs. Brown tiptoed over to the 

Digitized by 


8 4 


door and closed it cautiously, then 
coming up beside Miss Smithers she 
placed her hand on the spinster's arm 
and inquired solemnly: "If I tell you 
about that trip you just mentioned, 
declare you won't tell nobody?" 

"Never; nobody," stoutly. 

"Well, I got it just like I got most 
of the other truck I've just told you 
by accidentally overhearin' Dotty and 
her 'kindred sperrit,' Marie Antoinette 
Greer, relatin' their experiences to 
each other. By the way, I reckon 
pore Mis' Greer has as hard a time 
with her Mary Ann as I have with 
Dotty. The same time Dotty re- 
christened herself Dorothea, Mary Ann 
up and changed her name to Marie 
Antoinette, and they say 'twas the 
name of a woman that got her head 
cut off." 

"Well, I declare! Was the cuttin' 
accidental or a-purpose?" 

"I didn't hear, but 'twas unfortu- 
nate in either case — 'twas hard on her 
folks, I reckon. Well, about this 
trip — Dotty had bought herself a 
beautiful lot of clothes — paid four 
dollars and a half for one piece of fur 
to go 'round her neck, and three dollars 
for a hat, just full o' plumes, to wear 
on the train. She looked powerful 
stylish, if I do say it." Mrs. Brown's 
motherly pride here overcame her 
sarcasm anent her daughter's mystical 
proclivities and she quite beamed over 
the picture of sartorial excellence con- 
jured up by her words. 

"She had Pa's satchel packed with 
a wash rag, and comb and brush, and 
lookin'-glass, and some whitenin' to 
whiten her face with just before the 
train got to Columbiasville, where 
Dee's folks live. It's a long ways up 
there, you know ; she left here at seven 
o'clock in the mornin' and was to get 
there right after dinner, but poor 

Here Mrs. Brown began to feel 
doubtful as to the propriety of her tell- 
ing such a story on "the flesh of her 
flesh, bone of her bone," and again 
bound Miss Smithers to secrecy. 

"I won't never tell's long's my 
name is Jane Smithers," the spinster 

"Then o' course there ain't no dan- 

ger in me a-tellin' you," admitted Mrs. 

"Well, Dotty told Mary Ann, and 
I accidentally overheard the tellin', 
that the train hadn't more'n pulled 
out o' sight of Pa's furtherest cotton 
field when she noticed a crowd of 
awful jolly-lookin' people near her 
all laughin' and talkin'. Pretty soon 
one young man, who must a-been 
a regular Venus in looks, from the way 
Dotty described him, come across the 
aisle and apologized to Dotty for havin' 
left some grape-hulls on the window- 
sill of the seat where she was settin'. 
She knew, then, that he must a-been 
settin' there before she got on the 
train, so she says, says she: 'Oh, did 
I get your seat?' Whereupon he set 
down by her and explained that he 
had been settin' there, but when he 
saw her come in the car he moved 
away right quick and give her a 
'mental suggestion' that she must set 
down in the seat where the grape-hulls 
was, and in this way give him a chanst 
to get up a conversation with her. 

"Dotty's ears was alert the minute 
he said 'mental suggestion,' and she 
said all in a flash she knew he was a 
sperrit like herself, but she dassent 
look boldly at his eyes and see if his 
soul was the same soul as the prince's 
and the senator's. 

"He was a good talker, and he ex- 
plained to Dotty that he and the party 
across the aisle was fine actors and 
actresses; and they was a-travelin' 
with a star; the star bein' asleep in a 
car that was hitched onto the tail-end 
of the train. Dotty told Mary Ann 
that 'for eons and eons' she hadn't 
experienced no thrill equal to the one 
that run up and down her back when 
she realized she was settin' side by 
side with a flesh and blood play-actor. 
Her very words to Mary Ann was: 
'I was so enraptured that I was mo- 
mentarily expecting the star to ap- 
pear, and, by right of intuition, take 
me into the mystic circle of his satel- 
lites and keep me there forever.' 
Dotty learned that the star was 
sleepin' off the effects of a nerve tonic 
he took every time he performed on 
the stage, so she didn't get to see him. 
Them satellites sat and looked at 

Digitized by 




Dotty and she said she knew they 
must be awful jealous for they kep' 
on makin' remarks and gigglin'. One 
of 'em addressed Dotty's young man 
and said: 'You'd better pluck a feath- 
er from your bird of brilliant plumage 
to wear in your helmet when you're 
Henry of Navarre; she has quite 
enough to spare you one.' Dotty 's 
young man said, 'Aw, go 'long,' or 
words to that effect; but Dotty knew 
she had impressed the satellite with 
the elegance of her toilet. 

"The young man's name was Marm- 
aduke Cameron Baylor, but the satel- 
lites called him 'Soapy;' Dotty didn't 
know why, then. He was awful im- 
pressed with Dotty and ast her how 
old she was and if she smoked cigar- 
ettes, and if her pa was rich or not, 
and a few other polite questions along 
them lines. 

"It wasn't ten minutes till they was 
deep in Buddhy-talk. Then, of course, 
it didn't take 'em no time to find out 
they was affinities — he was hers, and 
she was his, proper and lawful. He 
remembered seekin' her up and down 
the Nile, and he also remembered 
comin' home to her in the evenin' 
when she was walkin' on the peristyle 
of, their Roman villa. He was the 
prince of 'Egypt, he was the Roman 
senator. He kinder got off his base 
.once when Dotty ast him if he was 
present when the city of Troy was 
destroyed by fire. It took him by 
surprise. 'Troy burnt up!' he hol- 
lered. 'Hell! I left four of my best 
trunks there last week!' 

"Dotty was powerful surprised at 
such a remark ; she thought he oughter 
said, 'By Bacchus;' 'twould have been 
more in keepin' with their sperrit talk. 
She made haste to set him right about 
which Troy she meant, but one of them 
satellites popped in with the remark: 
'Drop Troy and try Avoirdupois; 
it's more in keepin' with Soapy's 

"Mr. Baylor and Dotty talked and 
talked; she told him how many acres 
o' cotton lands her pa owned, and the 
bigger she described the cotton-fields 
the stouter he declared he was the 
flame. He painted enticin' pictures 
of their happiness together when they 

found out for sure they was the twins 
they took theirselves to be, and was 
married 'cordin' to the laws o' the 
United States in the present cen- 

' ' Huh ! Twins a-marryin' — it 

sounds plumb idiotic to me!" burst 
out the spinster in disgust. 

"Well, you ought to understand it 
was just their insides, their souls, that 
was twins. That is, Dotty believed 
this truck, and I've nigh tuckered 
myself out wrastlin' with her. Oral 
wrastlin', you know. I thought 
'twould be a relief to unburden my 
mind, but I guess I've wore you out 
with so much tomfoolery." 

"No, indeed! I'm hainkerin' after 
knowin' how they come out," Miss 
Jane reassured her. 

"Well, as the day wore on they got 
closer and closer and their future lives 
was planned out beautiful. They 
wasn't goin' to do a thing but play 
every night before the audiences that 
would go wild over Dotty's beauty 
and his gracefulness; and, of a day 
they'd sleep late and afterwards go 
buggy-ridin' in the parks, and all the 
people would look at 'em and say: 
'Oh, what a fine-lookin' couple!' It 
was goin' to be easy sailin'. The 
flame said he could see 'histrionic 
talent' shinin' out through Dotty's 
eyes; their fortune would be made, 
the world would be at their feet. 

"Pretty soon it occurred to Dotty 
that she was feelin' kinder empty 
around the place where her heart beat 
so happy; it must be gettin' 'long 
towards dinner time, she thought. 
The twin-flame said he was thirsty, 
and so while he was gone to t'other 
end of the car, where I reckon they 
must a-kep' the pail and gourd, she 
glanced at the watch me and Pa give 
her on her eighteenth birthday and 
saw it was 'way after one o'clock. 
She thought the train must be late, 
for 'twas advertised to get to Colum- 
biasville at one p.m. sharp; so when 
the conductor come 'round she gath- 
ered up courage and ast him when 
they would get to Columbiasville, just 
as bold as you please. 

"'Columbiasville?' he said, startled 
like. 'Why, good Lordy! we passed 

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Columbiasville five miles back — your 
ticket didn't read Columbiasville, did 

"Then Dotty forgot all about her 
elopement and decided she better get 
off and stay with her Uncle Dee 
awhile if she could get 'em to stop the 
train for her. It didn't take no per- 
suadin' for the conductor, for he was 
too eager to get shet o' her so easy, 
and so he pulled a line that runs 
through the tops o' the cars and the 
train slowed up with a jerk. Dotty 
said 'twas the fastest slowin' down she 
ever saw. 

"The flame said he was awful dis- 
tressed, but he helped her and her 
satchel and her bandbox off, and then 
— would you b'lieve it? The last one 
of them satellites come to the car door 
and while Dotty was a-pickin' up her 
baggage and her skirt to keep from 
gettin' full o' cockle-burrs and a-start- 
in' to trudge back down the track to 
Columbiasville, all the satellites, not 
excusin' even Mr. Marmaduke Cam- 
eron Baylor, set up a-laughin' and 
a-clappin' like wild-fire. I don't reck- 
on the ancient Romans ever clapped 
half as loud to Dotty's ears as them 
satellites did when she got off the 
train there in the wilderness, with a 
old cornfield on one side and a grave- 
yard on t'other. One young feller, 
another satellite, who had stayed back 
in the coach where the star was, poked 

his head out the winder and yelled: 
'What's the bloomin' trouble?' and 
one o' the women satellites yelled 
back, 'Just a little yap Soapy has been 
soft soaping, and she was so entranced 
she passed her happy station.' 

"Pore little Dotty looked from the 
cornfield to the graveyard, then back 
to the cornfield — then back to the 
graveyard, and there wasn't no sollis 
nowhere. The train had steamed 
merrily away, and the satellites had 
come to the back platform and had 
kept up their laughin' and clappin' 
till they was out o' sight; the last she 
saw o' them the flame was a-wavin' 
his hat high in the air and a-laughin' 
louder than any of the rest o' them. 
Dotty said to Mary Ann she knew 
when she saw that hat wavin' in the 
air just how Julius Caesar felt when 
he 'lowed, 4 Et tu, Brute'; and I think 
myself it was plumb bruty of the 

"Bruty ain't no name for it," 
agreed Miss Jane. 

"My pore little child trudged back 
them five miles, with her long skirt, 
her satchel and bandbox, and the fur 
thing waxin' hotter and hotter every 
step. The story leaked out in Colum- 
biasville, and she was laughed at for 
a solid month there. If such a com- 
bination of things as them won't cure 
her, then nothin' won't," Mrs. Brown 
finished, with a sigh of resignation. 

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By Lillian Kendrick Byrn 


N the march of mod- 
em p|r ogress 
marked by the in- 
vention of mills and 
machinery for mak- 
ing all manner of 
human necessities 
it is inevitable that 
the production of 
hand-made articles 
should fall into gen- 
eral disuse, that the 
maker and master of all machines— 
the human hand — should be super- 
seded by mechanical toilers. In the 
early dawn of our history as a nation 
America held a primitive race, whose 
manual productions, made not to sell 
but to use, are now among the richest 
ornaments of those museums that can 
afford them. Their work shows, as 

does the work of all primitive people 
which has come down to us, that the 
original tendency of humankind is to 
work honestly and to incorporate 
pride in the utility and love of the ar- 
tistic in their manual efforts. The 
untutored and stupid Indian woman 
wrought with her own hands the cloth- 
ing, the cooking utensils and the adorn- 
ments of her family, putting into them 
such skill, such love and such art- 
sense that to-day these expressions of 
unspoiled thought are valued at many 
times their weight in gold. As an 
example, it may be cited that within 
the last year an Indian basket, made 
and used for a mush-kettle a century 
ago, brought $2,500. 

Following the Indian handicrafts in 
this country were those practiced, of 
necessity, by the pioneer settlers. 

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The percentage of imported articles 
of wearing apparel and furniture was 
necessarily small, as compared to the 
needs of the whole population ; and it 
may be said that, practically speaking, 
hand-made products were universal. 
In the South, where the fleecy yield 
of the vast plantations was home spun 
and woven into "cottonade checks' ' 
worn by the slaves in summer, and the 
wool sheared, washed, carded and spun 
into "linsey-woolsey" for winter wear, 
the practice of handicraft was com- 
mon. A slave woman's wardrobe con- 

she was obliged to have practical 
knowledge of every detail of this work. 
The cutting of the garments, their 
stitching up by hand, required ad- 
ditional knowledge of hand-work, and 
it was said by a contemporary that 
Madame Washington herself never 
made a more attractive picture than 
when spinning with her maids in the 
little room at the back of Mt. Vernon, 
known as the spinning-room. This 
practice of handicraft from motives 
of necessity and utility continued as 
late as the first half of thejnineteenth 


sisted of two "shifts" and two "bed- 
gownds" of unbleached cotton, two 
"sack and skirt" suits of cottonade, 
two "head-handkerchers," aprons and 
a pair of shoes, "raised," tanned, cut 
and pegged at home. In the winter 
a woolen dress and petticoat were 
substituted for the cotton ones. 
Where the slaves numbered hundreds 
the work of attending to these supplies 
was an immense tax on the time and 
strength of the mistress. The card- 
ing-room, the spinning-room and the 
weaving-room and the dye-house were 
under her immediate supervision, and 

century, when "the war" changed 

In many of the mountain districts, 
however, where it is commonly as- 
serted they still vote, for "Andy" 
Jackson, conditions remained the same 
for a lengthy period, but gradually 
even the isolated mountaineers learned 
to want "store-bought" things. 

The wheel and loom, instead of 
having a place by every farm fireside, 
were consigned to lofts and sheds, or 
left behind in moving from place to 
place. It is not uncommon to find 
still in mountain villages an old-time 

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weaver who makes rag carpets for the 
community, but the more difficult 
kinds of weaving have become almost 
a lost art. In certain localities, how- 
ever, systematic efforts are being 
made to revive this domestic textile 

When Berea College was established 

in Kentucky many of the students 

"fetched in" homespun coverlets and 

blankets to "trade out" their tuition. 

Many of these were heirlooms and of 

elaborate designs, requiring looms of 

this work so great that it was deemed 
advisable to establish a department 
of Fireside Industries, where compe- 
tent weavers and chemists teach spin- 
ning and weaving, not only to the girls 
in the school, but to the women of the 
district as well. Beside the coverlets 
these workers make blankets, linsey- 
woolsey, rag carpets and rugs; in 
cotton and linen they make counter- 
panes, table covers and towels. The 
college raises its own flax and gives 
out the spinning in the village. The 


six or eight treadles. It being found 
that the recently woven coverlets were 
inferior in workmanship and dyes to 
the older specimens, the " Homespun 
Fair" was inaugurated as a means of 
improving the quality of the work, 
prizes being offered for the most per- 
fect specimens. These fairs have 
proven a valuable aid to the work of 
the college, many families now being 
able by this means to educate their 
children, to whom "book-ramm'," as 
representing a cash outlay would be 
an utter impossibility. The college 
faculty soon found the demand for 

wool is carded by machinery (except 
for special orders) but dyed and spun 
by hand. At the Paris Exposition 
Berea coverlets won a silver medal. 
The guild retains the quaint names 
by which the mountain people know 
their patterns, such as "Young Men's 
Fancy," "Double Bow Knot," "Cat's 
Paw and Rattlesnake Trail," and 
"Virginia Beauty." This last sug- 
gests a prized "draft" brought from 
the older State. Other home-made 
articles sold by the Berea Fireside In- 
dustries are chairs, saddles, spinning 
wheels, looms, ax handles and baskets, 

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representing the work of both sexes in 
the community. 

In a nook of Buncombe County, 
North Carolina, Miss Frances L. Good- 
rich began a small school ten years 
ago. The problem of helping the poor 
mountaineers without injuring their 
self-respect (for these people are main- 
ly of sturdy Scotch descent, with a 
fierce pride in their independence) 
was solved by the purchase of cover- 
lets and vegetable dyes. Miss Good- 
rich had no difficulty in disposing of 
all the articles she could have made 

Defeat' is still commemorated by a 
stiff pattern, in which we can almost 
see the British ranks marching to 
their fate. Other patterns with his- 
toric or political names are 'Presi- 
dent's View,' 'Polk and Dallas/ 'Mis- 
souri Trouble,' 'Whig Rose/ 'Jeffer- 
son Davis/ and 'Abraham Lincoln's 
Destruction . ' The last two were given 
me by a weaver whose family must 
have been in the minority in this 
section, which was so largely Union 
in sentiment. 'Beauty of Kaintuck/ 
'Wheel of Fortune/ 'Noah's Wonder/ 


and has, since her first venture, suc- 
cessfully inaugurated these cabin in- 
dustries in five other coves. Al- 
though she has had some success in 
the production and sale of baskets, 
shuck hats (made from satiny inner 
husks), silk tapestry, rugs and linsey, 
Miss Goodrich finds the demand for 
her coverlets so steady that the prin- 
cipal output takes this form. "The 
names/' writes Miss Goodrich, "are 
a reflection of the lives of the people 
for more than a century. We may 
guess that 'St. Anne's Robe' and 
'Irish Chain' were among the drafts 
brought from the old country by the 
Scotch-Irish settlers. ' Braddock's 

4 Philadelphia Pavement, ' ' Rocky 
Mountain Cucumber,' 'Big Works of 
Tennessee,' 'Cup and Saucer/ 'Wind- 
ing Vine/ 'Sea Shell/ 'Stair Steps and 
Honeycomb' are other names." 

When Mr. and Mrs. T. L. Bayne 
came to Russellville from New Orleans 
some ten years ago, as summer visitors, 
they admired and bought a number 
of covers and rugs which they found 
in the mountain homes of that region. 
Mr. and Mrs. Bayne were familiar 
with the work done by Mrs. Sara Avery- 
Leeds in extending and systematizing 
the weaving of the Attakapas cotton- 
ades in southern Louisiana, and on 
coming, four years later, to make 

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Russellville their home, they deter- 
mined to develop the industry in that 
locality. Two years of patient effort 
(with indifferent success at first) found 
both Mr. and Mrs. Bayne competent 
weavers, with a knowledge also of the 
old dye formulas and a collection of 
old drafts. One of these old designs 
is on the paper on which it was written 
over one hundred years ago. They 
bought four looms and taught and 
employed all who cared to learn. An 
impediment to progress in this- region 

terials, silk scraps on a lustre cotton 
chain, making a fine silky weave, 
especially suitable for the upholstering 
of chairs, tapestry, wall panels, por- 
tieres and cushion covers. Mr. and 
Mrs. Bayne make a specialty of fitting 
out whole rooms or summer homes. 
They maintain exhibits at Asheville, 
New Orleans, Boston Arts and Crafts 
Society, and several other New Eng- 
land exchanges, as well as at Biltmore, 
Baltimore and Richmond. They have 
succeeded in making double cloth, and 

is a prevalent belief that only those 
weave who are too poor to buy cloth. 
The people of this region are many of 
them descendants of an old Portu- 
guese colony, which once settled here, 
with a few of Scotch descent, and a 
sprinkling of Indian blood; the ma- 
jority of them are poor and illiterate. 
Mr. and Mrs. Bayne employ them to 
work under their supervision, thus 
giving them the benefit of immediate 
payment for their work. This per- 
sonal direction has resulted in im- 
proving the color combinations, the 
designs and the combinations of ma- 

are experimenting with the eight - 
treadle looms in the hope of copying 
some very valuable century-old speci- 
mens they have secured. The loom 
shown is nearly one hundred years old, 
having wooden pegs and a hand- 
wrought iron ratchet. The quilt, 
made of pink, yellow and green scraps, 
is also over eighty years old. The 
Baynes live in a comfortable and 
highly artistic log cabin, whose fire- 
place is surmounted by a steel axle 
from one of Burnside's army wagons, 
abandoned there and now used as a 
support for the chimney. 

Note. — Subsequent articles will describe the work done at other mountain settlements, also the pottery, metal 
work and textile weaving at Sophie Newcomb Institute, Georgia Institute of Technology and similar institution*. 

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By Mary Ward Shuster 

OU ain* got no loose, 
keerless an' shiftin' 
change about you, 
ees you?" old Uncle 
Ned would invaria- 
bly ask of any list- 
ener to whom he 
had been allowed^to 
pour out his tale of 
woe regarding the 
irregularities and 
ready matrimonial 
adaptations of his many-time widowed 
and as often consoled daughter Lu- 
cindy, whose swift transitions from 
4 'grass" to "sod" conditions of single 
blessedness impressed her father more 
by their temporary inconvenience to 
himself than from any moral or con- 
ventional standpoint. His ingenuous 
appeal generally shifted the * 'loose and 
keerless change" into his own pocket, 
when he would proceed, with great 
unction, to further elaborate his pa- 
ternal difficulties. "Cindy sut'ny is 
got a cunjurin* way with men folks 
if she is 'flicted with giner'l obstrepu- 
lousness at home," which term, like 
charity, covered a multitude of short- 
comings, of mixed variety, and ren- 
dered her none the less attractive to 
her many admirers. 

There was no denying the fact; 
Lucinda, variously known as Lucy, 
Lucindy, and plain Cindy, had cer- 
tainly contracted the ' 'man-yin' habit " 
or infirmity, and carried about her an 
infectious atmosphere literally teem- 
ing with the "marTym'" germ, which 
quickly transplanted itself into the 
circulatory system of the nearest 
object, causing thereby the experienc- 
ing of a "pow'ful bad spell" to the 
victim, the only reliable cure for which 
was a matrimonial alliance with the 

disseminating agent of the evil con- 

Lucindy was, in her marital sur- 
vivals, a veritable reaping widow with 
automatic attachments, and wherever 

You ain't got no loose, keerless an' shiftin' 
change about you. ees you?" 

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had been sown the seed of her inten- 
tions, there had she never failed to 
reap, in season and out, until, at the 
present chronicling, she had gathered 
in, harvested and re-committed to the 
earth from which they had sprung, a 
varied crop of transitory partners. 
No age, previous condition or present 


embarrassment, or degree of impedi- 
ment, no color, from her light ginger- 
bread favorites to black and tan, or 
the deepest ebony complexions had 
escaped her matrimonial reaper, until 
her achievements in this line had 
become the reproach of the "settled" 
matrons and the envy and despair of 
the less popular of her "single-lady 
friends," all of whom conspired to pour 

upon the indifferent head of the flirta- 
tious Lucindy much "malice, hatred 
and all uncharitableness." 

Matters, they declared, had pro- 
gressed to the questionable point where 
it became dubious as to whether or not 
the terms "matrimony" and "cere- 
mony" conveyed to the mind of the 
"soshyble-minded" Cindy any sepa- 
rate or distinctive meaning, so beatifi- 
cally contented did she appear to 
abide, under any conditions, in what- 
ever state of domestic complication to 
which she believed it had pleased a 
beneficent and accommodating Provi- 
dence to call her. 

While Lucindy's manifold matri- 
monial experiences progressed she con- 
tinued to write new pages in that book 
of woman's unhappiness — personal his- 
tory — and, with her usual inability to 
preserve in the flesh the various and 
successive partners of her vacillating 
fortunes, the "funeral baked meats" 
continued, at remarkably short inter- 
vals, to "furnish forth the wedding 
feasts" with most indecorous rapidity. 
Her transitions from tears to smiles, 
from grave to altar, evinced an energy 
and adaptability which, enlisted in a 
more worthy cause, would have made 
her a monument of success. Whether 
bedecked in her favorite gown of flow- 
ing white, with orange blossoms, or 
wax cherry accompaniment, or clad 
as "chief mo'ner" in her "widder's 
weedin's," heading the procession to 
or from a "marryin'" or a "buryin'," 
as demanded by the exigencies of the 
moment, she was mistress of herself 
and of the situation. Whether in 
sowing time or harvest, bridal wreath 
or "fun'al chaplet," oblivious of their 
conspicuous proximity, she enjoyed 
the occasion and comforted herself 
with the gratifying assurance: "Daid 
is daid, an* he ain' gwineter be no 
daider in fo' years than he is in fo* 
mont's," the truth of which propo- 
sition was as apparent as its phil- 

Upon the recent achievement of a 
new matrimonial metamorphosis Lu- 
cindy visited a lately bereaved sister 
whose buried partner was "workin* 
on her peace," and who loudly be- 
wailed her never- to-be-consoled loss. 

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and after the administration of such 
comforting phrases as she could re- 
member offered for her own consola- 
tion in time of great distress, Lucindy 
concluded: "It do seem like the Lord 
have smote you mighty onsparin', 
an' you with only one husban', too; 
now, husban's ain* no rar'ty to me, 
but it sut'ny is hard to understan' 
the onscrupulousness ov Providence; 
but yo' ole man is gone where the 
boa'disfree, an' no chance ovmarryin', 
accordin' to the Scripters ; but you kin 
come moughty nigh to reckonin' where 
he airi spendm' his nights." 

A comfortable sense of sympathy 
with this distressed sister, a possible 
fleeting recollection of neglected ma- 
ternal admonitions, on her own part, 
her own varied efforts at the fulfilling 
of the law, or perhaps these sentiments 
combined, doubtless inspired the song 
which Lucindy sang on her homeward 
way, conveying to any one whom it 
might concern, the tuneful and ad- 
monitory information: 

"My Mammy tol' me erlong time ergo, 
' Chile, doan' you marry no man what you 

Dey steals all yo* money an* dey porns all 

yo' clo'se, 
Den whatcher gwin'ter do, de Lawd only 


That the drying of a widow's tears 
is dangerous was made manifest in 
the experience of an earnest consoler, 
who realized in an easy conquest, 
which was likewise a surrender, that 
Lucindy's previous entanglements cost 
her nothing beyond intermittent and 
brief periods of alternate affection and 
"moh'nin'," that while she had loved 
neither wisely nor well, and not for 
long, she was quite willing to believe 
that all was "fur the bes\" and that 
she should "not despise whatsomever 
comfort come handy." And so it 
befell that she was wooed and won in 
an astonishingly regular manner by 
a very dark and ardent candidate, who 
proved later, as did his companion, to 
have an insatiable appetite for that 
"spice" which appears to flavor so 
many lives. Although they had gone, 
hand in hand, through the formality 
of a "license mar'age" and had en- 
joyed the respect of the village in 

which they formed conspicuous figures, 
custom and the gradual passage of 
time had. in some way, staled, aged 
and altogether withered whatever va- 
riety had belonged* to the regular and 
conventional mode of life enjoyed by 
the erstwhile devoted pair. Separa- 
tions, of longer or shorter duration, 
ensued, followed by spasmodic spells 
of repentance and temporary restora- 
tion to their more happy phases of 
existence. These differences became 
more and more frequent until finally 
the "reg'lar" husband made perma- 
nent his nomadic transgressions and 
sought comfort in other scenes and 
"fren'ships" far from the ken of 
Lucindy, giving as his reason for the 
desertion of the old one, which, though 
differently expressed, has appealed to 
masculine weakness and has, from 
time immemorial explained many mat- 
rimonial defections, that he had "jist 
natchelly done los' his taste for that 

That Lucindy was driven to neither 
despair nor an untimely end was due 
to the fact that the widowed pastor 
of Mt. Zion church was "a oncommon 
fine-lookin' pusson," and that she had 
further determined to "get shet" of 
the legal impediment to a closer rela- 
tion with the church and its incum- 
bent. Her first step was taken 
through the law which released her 
from the bonds which had tied her to 
the unwilling partner and her plans 
were then directed to the subjugation 
of the parson and a subsequent rela- 
tion to be ratified by the "diplomar 
an' ticket" ceremony. 

Numerous presents found their way 
to the preacher — tempting pones of hot 
corn bread were "sont in" just in time 
for the breakfast of the reverend 
Brother Smith, to whom Lucindy be- 
wailed the fact of her "backslidin'," 
refusing the while to believe that sal- 
vation was great enough to enfold her 
— at least, not just yet. The more 
interested the parson became the 
farther would Lucindy recede from 
a too ready surrender of the world, 
the flesh and the devil. While con- 
fessing to be completely overwhelmed 
by the weight of her transgressions 
she steadily refused absolution, pro- 

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9 6 


f essing her belief that for her there was 
no possible "balm of Gilead or ile of 

Naturally, Brother Smith sorrowed 
deeply over this one lamb which would 
persist in straying so far from the fold, 
and, as naturally, his mind dwelt 
much upon schemes for snatching so 
fascinating a brand from the burning, 
and Lucindy's hopelessness over her 
"original sin" and general unworthi- 
ness made the sorrowing parson only 
the more determined that she should 
be saved against her will. 

Brother Smith was always at his 
best when "wras'lin' in praV at the 
hearthstone of a fellow sinner, when 
his exhortations could assume some- 
thing more of a personal application, 
and when other little attentions — not 
usual from the pulpit — could be made 
with possible propriety, and so he had 
persuaded Lucindy to meet him upon 
her own ground for the purpose of her 
own conversion. Accordingly, upon 
an evening when his time was his own 
he knocked at the door of Lucindy's 
home and was asked to await her in 
the parlor, which she had just swept 
and garnished for his visit. Much 
impressed with the homely and com- 
forting look of things, he settled him- 
self in an easy chair and took in his 
surroundings. There was a square 
wooden clock in the center of the 
crimson-draped mantel, a token from 
an early and departed love ; a life-sized 
crayon portrait of a "cullud gent'man " 
hanging upon the wall, which gave him 
a jealous pang as he wondered just 
where he had figured in the matrimo- 
nial scheme, and why this one dear 
departed should have been signally 
favored above the rest — not knowing 
that the soliciting agent had made 
seductive promises as to a "free for 
nothin' portrait," which had involved 
the widow in the subsequent purchase 
of the resplendent gilt frame, and had 
depleted the bank account in the old 
teapot by several dollars. Brother 
Smith could not resist the desire to see 
Lucindy' s beauty perpetuated in such 
gorgeous setting, and felt that such a 
treasure would make a barren room 
to blossom like a rose. Every- 
thing in this neatly arranged little 

parlor appealed strongly to his senti- 
ment and to his love of comfort: the 
tall "chaney vases," with their burden 
of long, bright-hued grasses and cat- 
tails, flanked on either side the Con- 
necticut clock, next in value to the 
crayon ; the oblong black frame, hold- 
ing in mournful imprisonment the 
wreath of embalmed flowers, which 
had done duty at the "las' ack" for 
another who had gone his way upon 
the expiration of his "destined hour;" 
the coal-oil lamp, with its flowered 
shade and piece of red flannel reposing 
unctuously in the bottom of the glass 
reservoir; the lurid chromos, one of a 
snow scene and another of a lonely 
farmhouse, with its one light shining 
from the window upon an alum- 
sprinkled background of winter; the 
shells upon the hearth, the well-worn 
album with its impossible collection 
of pictures; the "platform rocker." 
ornamented with a tidy of green 
worsted roses, and the hard, slippery 
horsehair chairs and sofa, from which 
a descent, as sudden, swift and sure as 
that to Avernus, could with certainty 
be predicted — all these appointments 
conspired to fill the clerical breast with 
longing for that "something better 
than he had known" in the way of 
creature comforts, and to shape into 
definiteness the half-formed resolution 
which had partly inspired his lively 
interest in the spiritual retrogression 
of the possessor of so much "homeli- 

When Lucindy'made her appearance 
Brother Smith, after the usual greet- 
ings, proceeded to the completion of 
her soul's salvation and the "meetin* " 
opened with prayer, soon interrupted 
by the audible sobs of the sin-shaken 
subject. The louder the prayer the 
more violent the sobs and moans. 
Lucindy's was a soul at war with itself 
and everything else. Brother Smith 
exhorted, prayed, preached and 
snorted — all to no purpose. She knew 
she was made to be lost, and ' ' ' twain' t 
no use for a good man like him to git 
down in the low-grounds ov sorrer 
'bout it — what is to be will be," and 
many protestations of a like nature, 
until the parson thought it wise to 
capitulate, and proposed a milder form 

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i c»ojr uutut miu toojc in DIB SUTTOUIiaillgB 

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9 8 


of salvation somewhat on the install- 
ment plan, suggesting that the 
prayers which had been offered be 
given a chance to work, and that Lu- 
cindy should "steddy over the situa- 
tion" until next day, when he would 
renew his bombardment of heaven in 
her cause. Fearing that this adjourn- 
ment might mean the frustration of 
her plans for his ensnarement, Lucindy 
fell into a new attack of unworthiness 
and self-depreciation, accompanied by 
weeping and threatened hysterics, 
which finally drove the now distracted 
brother to more heroic methods of 
consolation. Kneeling upon the floor, 
where the penitent had been pros- 
trated by the violence of her emotions, 
he attempted to lift her in his arms 
1 and to administer such religious com- 
fort and personal cajolery as were at 
his command. Quietly reposing in 
the clerical arms, Lucindy's tears 
ceased to flow and her resistance to 
possible salvation perceptibly grew 
less and less, and making an effort to 
conceal her supreme satisfaction, she 
murmured that when in such good and 
"ondeceivin 7 comp'ny" she was "not 
so skeered like, but when lef alone 
then sin come a-ridin' on a big horse 
an' jes' natchelly camped roun' her." 
Slyly glancing into the face of the 
parson she assured him that she 

"warn't made for lonesomeness, an' 
it would be a load offen the min* ef 
there was jes' some one to lay the bad 
sperits an* keep 'em down an* help to 
tek keer of the little hoa'din's" in the 
old teapot. 

Brother Smith, after due reflection, 
thought he could undertake the spiritu- 
al as well as the financial part of this 
responsibility, and before he left 
Lucindy's comfortable little home 
matters were arranged between them 
for a quiet and early transfer to his 
management of her worldly affairs, and 
for his permanent ostracism of the 
"bad sperits." 

The preliminaries were short, and 
soon the ceremony uniting this strayed 
and recovered lamb with the shepherd 
of the flock was performed by a 
neighboring parson, upon the con- 
clusion of which, with salvation 
perching upon her victorious banners 
and satisfaction breathing from every 
fold of the bridal drapery, Lucindy, 
leaning upon the arm of the happy 
parson, marched slowly down the aisle, 
the congregation, with one accord, 
aptly singing: 

"The ole ark ov Zion is a-movin'; 
The ole ark ov Zion is a-movin' ! 
She has landed many sinners, 
An* she'll Ian' a-many mo'. 
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!" 


Patient as Time, beneath the seas, deep down, 

The coral toils in darkness as of night 

To build those fairy castles, Parian white, 
And frosted forests, faintly touched with brown, 
And crimson, scentless bowers of fair renown, 

Which never drop a leaf, or petal bright, 

But blossom still, lorn of the sun's broad light, 
Throughout dim years, if ocean smile or frown. 
Oh, beautiful that home 'neath chafing seas, 

Though not for Beauty's sake those toilers plan ; 
But, heeding laws whereof they do not know, 
They build for far-off, dateless centuries; 

With never thought or care for good of man, 
Wide realms are wrested from the waves below. 

Clarence H. Urner. 

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By J. L. Harbour 

HOSE who are dis- 
posed to criticise 
the dress of the men 
of to-cjay on the 
ground that it is 
' effeminate in^ some 
of its details should 
hark back to a few 
centuries ago when 
the men almost out- 
— distanced the 

ladies in the elabor- 
ateness and gorgeousness of their gar- 
ments. The brightest-hued silks and 
velvets, the most gorgeous of bro- 
cades and the costliest of laces entered 
into the wardrobes of even the most 
learned and dignified of men. 

The rage for lace on the garments 
of men reached its height in the days 
of William and Mary. Even the stern 
and morose William himself gave time 
and thought to the adornment of his 
garments with fine old lace. It is on 
record that his bills for lace for his 
own wardrobe aggregated in a single 
year nearly fifteen thousand dollars. 
He paid eight hundred dollars for the 
lace on six of his cravats, and there 
were one hundred and seventeen yards 
of lace on twelve of his pocket hand- 
kerchiefs, the aggregate value of this 
lace amounting to nearly twenty-five 
hundred dollars. This was in the year 
1695. During the sixteenth century 
some of the most beautiful lace ever- 
made in the world was wrought by 
the skillful fingers of the lace-makers 
in Venice and in other parts of the 
world. That which Cowper called 
" needlework sublime" occupied the 
time of all classes of women. A wom- 
an not skillful with her needle was 
regarded as almost unfeminine, and 
some of the men took pride in their 
skill as makers of lace, also. 

Some of the beautiful laces of those 
days defied successful imitation, and 
we have nothing at the present time 
that can equal them in delicacy and 
beauty. The patterns were so dainty 
and delicate that they were called 
"stitches in the air," and one marvels 
at the infinite skill and patience of 
the workers who produced these beau- 
tiful cobweb creations. 

In the days of King William and 
of Mary, his lace-loving consort, the 


English soldiers took infinite pride in 
their lace. An old poem tells us that 

"To war the troops advance, 
Adorned and trim like females for the dance. 
Down sinks Lothario, sent by one dire 

A well-dressed hero, to the shades below." 

•. 1 

• ■> 



her acquittal by the taste of 
her elegantly-laced stomacher, 
the lace robings of her dress, 
and single lace flounce, her 
long, pendulous ruffles, hanging 
from the elbow, heard, flutter- 
ing in her agitation, by the 
court/ ' 

Lachrymosal as the jurors be- 
came over the touching beauty 
of the laces of the erring Miss 
Rudd, they were not moved to 
the degree of acquitting her, 
and she finally went to the 
gallows, laces and all. 

One of the delights of both 
'the ladies and gentlemen in the 
days when men wore lace was 
the finding of a "real bargain" 
in lace, and Swift says in his 
rather sarcastic "Furniture of 
a Woman's Mind:" 

"In choosing lace a critic nice, 
Knows to a groat the lowest price." 

Again he says with still less 
courtesy toward the fair crea- 
tures : 

"And when you are among your- 
selves, how naturally after the first 
LACE ROSRTTB and garter worn by men in the compliments, do you entertain your- 
sixTEENTH century selves with the price and choice of 

lace, apply your hands to each other's 
lappets and ruffles, as if the whole 
In one of Sheridan's plays the lace- business of your life and the public con- 
wearing propensities of the soldier is ^^ depended on the cut of your petti- 
referred to in this line : coats ! 

Some of the ladies thus maligned 
"Dear to think how the sweet fellows j ht properly have called the 

sleep on the ground, and fight in silk stock- \f> . ^ ' .£ , J ., r . ,, , ,« 
ings and lace ruffles!" attention of Swift to the tact that the 

men were not above giving a great 
Very fine lace ruffles, reaching from deal of time and thought to their own 
the hem of the sleeve to the knuckles, laces and silks and velvets. Truth to 
were regarded as an essential part of tell, the tailors have ever had about 
the trimmings on the coat of the well- as* weary a time of it as the dress- 
dressed man, and some of the gold and makers, and the vanity of what 
silver lace of those days cost almost Josiah Allen's wife calls the "male 
fabulous sums. Ruffles of the richest sect" falls very little below that of 
lace were worn on the short knee the ladies. 

trousers and even the hats of the men That tiny instrument, the needle, 
were adorned with lace, while it was has been from time immemorial one 
used in lavish profusion on their waist- of the most useful implements in the 
coats and cloaks. world. It is essentially a woman's 

Early in the seventeenth century implement, but the men of all ages 
one Miss Margaret Caroline Rudd, a have found abundant use for it. It 
great beauty, was tried for forgery, has fashioned lace and embroidery 
and we read that she "quite moved that may well be given a place among 
her jurors to tears, and nigh gained the fine arts of the world. No other 

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instrument has been so universally 
used by all classes of women. Queens 
have taken the greatest delight in the 
use of the needle, and in the early 
centuries royal and noble ladies spent 
hours of their time daily in plying 
their needles for the adornment of the 
church ; and we are told that when the 
great Wolsey went to beg an audience 
with Queen Catherine on the subject 
of her divorce she came to meet him 
with a skein of red embroidery silk 
about her neck. Scotland's unfortu- 
nate Queen Mary found her needle a 
great solace during her long captivity, 
and in the cloisters of Westminster 
Abbey lie all that is mortal of one 
Catherine Sloper, whose epi- 
taph sets forth the fact that 
she was " excellent with 
her needle." 

When lace-making came 
into vogue all classes of 
women had their lace "pil- 
lows" and frames, and 
when both men and women 
began to use lace in great 
quantities for the adorn- 
ment of their clothing, their 
bed and table linen, their 
furniture and even their 
carriages, the making of 
lace became one of the 
great industries of the 
world. We read of King 
Charles the First having 
his carpet-bag trimmed 
with ' ' broad parchment 
gold lace," while the night- 
caps of His Majesty were 
trimmed with fine laces, 
and Charles II had the 
seats of his throne orna- 
mented with silver and 
gold lace. We read of one 
Spanish lady of the seven- 
teenth century whose bed 
was of green and gold 
damask lined with silver 
brocade and trimmed with 
point de Spain, while her 
sheets were edged with lace 
half a yard wide. We read 
of the beds of some of the 
nobles being elaborately 
ornamented with lace, while 
the^'nightgowns of some of 

the gentlemen belonging to the royal 
families had fifty yards of lace on them ! 
Even the shoes of some of the men 
were lace -trimmed, and when Lord 
Stair came to Paris in the year 17 19 
his servants wore hats laced with 
Spanish point and their sleeves were 
picked with fine silver lace. 

The smuggling of lace from one 
country into another to avoid the 
payment of duty is by no means a sin 
of recent years, for we read of a very 
clever and curious way of smuggling 
lace into France from Belgium in the 
sixteenth century. Dogs were the 
innocent victims of those who wished 
to secure rare laces without paying duty 


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on them. The dogs were petted, well- 
fed and made much of in every way 
at home for a time. Then they were 
taken from France to Belgium where, 
the poor beasts were starved almost 
to death and beaten until they must 
have longed to return to France. 
When a dog had become sufficiently 
attenuated the skin of a larger dog 
was fitted to his body and the inter- 
vening space filled in with fine and 
costly lace. The dog was then turned 
loose to find his way home with his 
contraband "insides." The homing 
instinct of the dog is very acute, and 

lacb-trimmbd boot worn by men in six- 
teenth CENTURY 

few of them •* \iled to reach home with 
their booty. "* r course they received 
a warm welcome and were speedily 
relieved of their outer skins and again 
well fed and well treated in prepara- 
tion for future smuggling. But alas 
for the poor innocent dogs! The 
custom-house officers came to know 
of this method of smuggling, and 
no less than forty thousand dogs were 
killed before an end was put to this 
method of importing lace. 

No lace ever made contains finer 
threads than are to be found in some 
of the rare old Brussels lace. We are 
told that the finest of this thread was 
spun in dark, underground rooms 

because contact with the dry air 
caused the thread to break. At one 
time lace to the value of seven hundred 
pounds was made from a single pound 
of flax, spun underground by the 
skillful thread spinners. The cob- 
webby texture of the lace made. from 
these fine threads was wonderful, and 
defied successful imitation. When the 
Empress Marie Louise entered the Bel- 
gian capital with Napoleon she was pre- 
sented with a great quantity of the 
finest lace. In the collection was a 
large curtain of the most exquisite 
Brussels point, in which there was 
skillfully wrought a representation 
of the birth of the king of Rome. 
There were Cupids supporting the 
drapery of the royal cradle, and all 
of the work was of the most intri- 
cate pattern. 

Henry III was one of the lace-lov- 
ing men of his day, and his effemi- 
nate tastes in dress even led him 
to now and then appear in a neck- 
lace of pearls. A great ruff of the 
costliest lace was a dear delight to 
this monarch. Every age has had 
its satirists, and those of the time 
of this vain monarch applied to 
him the sobriquet of "Gandronneur 
des collets de sa femme" The ruffs 
grew to such huge size under the ex- 
ample set by Henry III that the 
wearers of them were almost un- 
able to turn their heads in them, 
and we are told that spoons with 
handles a foot and a half long were 
required for the eating of soup! 
When Henry III appeared at a fair 
attired in his most enormous ruff a 
band of merry students guyed him by 
appearing in even larger ruffs of paper. 
For this impertinence they were all 
sent to prison. One of the court 
dresses of this masculine lover of laces 
had on it no less than four thousand 
yards of pure gold lace. Then, as now, 
royalty set the pace for the world of 
fashion, and lace in great quantities 
was used by all who could afford to 
purchase it. In vain were the edicts 
against extravagance in dress when the 
king himself set such an example of 
reckless expenditure. More than one 
edict against the wearing of laces was 
issued, but few of these edicts were of 

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any avail, and some of them met with 
open ridicule. The love of dress, in- 
herent in men and women from time 
immemorial, made it impossible to 
check for long the extravagances of 
the people. Dress they would and did 
in the best their purses could buy for 
them . Then, as now, the plea was made 
that elaborate dress added to the 

no less than three hundred pairs of 
these lace-trimmed boots. The ladies 
of that day, when taken to task for 
their extravagance, might well have 
used this fact as a weapon of defence, 
and they might have added that it is 
a woman's prerogative to adorn her- 
self as she will. 

Louis XIV did much to introduce 


industries of the world, and it is true 
that many thousands of women and 
children were given employment by 
the lavish use of lace. 

When the ruff began to wane in 
popularity an even more absurd fash- 
ion for men came into vogue in the 
great, flaring boot-top elaborately 
trimmed with lace.. We are told of 
one gentleman of fashion that he had 

the making of lace into France. Find- 
ing that royal edicts could not stop 
the wearing of lace he wisely deter- 
mined that some of the profits arising 
from the manufacture of lace should 
come to France. Thirty of the most 
skillful lace-makers in Venice were 
brought to France under the direction 
of Colbert, the minister of finance. 
Colbert established these women lace- 

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makers at his own chdteau and set 
them to work. Some weeks later the 
king announced to his courtiers at a 
supper that he had succeeded in having 
lace made in France more beautiful 
than that made in Venice. The laces 
made by the women at the chdteau of 
Colbert were then exhibited on the 

making were kept in France and the 
people were encouraged to wear lace. 
The profits from its manufacture were 
enormous, and both men and women 
went to the greatest excess in the 
wearing of the costly and beautiful 
fabric. The wily Colbert was no 
doubt right when he said that "Fash- 


walls of a room hung with rich crimson 
velvet. The lace-loving men of the 
court "went wild" over the rare 
specimens of lace shown them, and 
the moment the king had retired 
fought for possession of the lace on the 
velvet hangings. The name of Point 
de France was given to the lace, and 
an edict went forth that no other 
kind was to be worn at the court. 
The result was that the profits of lace- 

ion was to France what the mines of 
Peru were to Spain." 

Those disposed to bewail the ex- 
travagance of the royalties of the 
present day may, if they will, find 
abundant proof of the fact that they 
have no lack of precedents for their 
extravagance in dress as well as in 
other matters. When, in 1679, Louis 
XIV gave a splendid fite at Marly, he 
presented each lady present with a 

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beautiful robe, elaborately trimmed 
with the costliest of point lace. One 
writer, referring to this fact, says: 
"What heart-burnings must such a 
present have caused among the unin- 
vited ! How long must such a treasure 
have been hoarded among the heir- 
looms of these great dames till '93 
dispersed all things, and duchesses, 

twenty-five thousand livres. That 
very beautiful dame, Madame R6ca- 
mier, was a great lover of lace. Her 
bed curtains were of the finest Brussels 
lace with linings of rose satin, and the 
bedspread was covered with the same 
costly lace, while from the pillows of 
finely-embroidered cambric fell bord- 
ers of Valenciennes. Nor were the 


emigrants in London, disposed of 
their laces ell by ell!" 

We read in a later period of the 
Duchess Douairiere receiving callers 
in her bed, on which there was a lace 
spread of Point d'Argentan valued at 
forty thousand crowns ; and when the 
eldest daughter of Louis XV was 
married to the Prince of Spain the 
lace in her bridal trousseau cost 

men of this period a whit behind the 
women in their liking for lace-trimmed 
beds. Napoleon owned up to a great 
fondness for lace, and he made the 
wearing of his favorite point lace 
obligatory at his court. 

The great lace ruffs of Queen Eliza- 
beth are matters of history. She 
quite outdistanced all her predecessors 
in the size and number of her ruffs. 

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We are told that one reason why the 
queen affected these great lace ruffs 
was because she had a yellow throat, 
which the wearing of the ruff concealed. 
Her ruffs were wonderful creations of 
lace, cutwork, bone, gold, silver, 
bugles, spangles and jewels. Some 
one called these creations ' 'pillars of 

The craze for lace reached such a 
height that the custom-house officers 
had to be very wary to prevent vast 
quantities of the lace from being 
smuggled from one country to the 
other. One is amused to read of a 
Spanish gentleman caught in the act 
of smuggling thirty-six lace-trimmed 


pride," but it is safe to say that this 
term was not applied to them within 
the hearing of Elizabeth. She went 
so far as to indicate the depth of the 
ruffs others might wear, and even 
stationed men at the city gates armed 
with shears, with which they were to 
cut any ruffs exceeding the prescribed 

shirts for his own use. In one instance 
a coffin was opened by the in- 
spectors and the astonishing dis- 
covery made that only the head and 
shoulders of the corpse remained, while 
the rest-of the figure was made up of 
thousands of yards of rare lace stuffed 
into the clothing of the corpse. 

The people once carried their love 

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of lace not only to the verge of the 
grave, but even into the grave itself. 
We are told of the beautiful Aurora 
Konigsmarck that she "sleeps clad in 
the richest point d'Angleterre, Ma- 
lines and Guipure.' ' 

The machine-made lace of our day 
and the changes in the customs of life 
of the women of all lands have had a 
great deal to do with the decline of 
hand-made lace. The women of our 
day engage in so many occupations 
closed to them a century ago that few 

of them have any time for lace-mak- 
ing. The sewing machine has done 
away with many kinds of hand needle- 
work, and lace-making by hand will 
never occupy the time and thought 
of the women of all classes as it did 
in the sixteenth and seventeenth 
centuries, while it is reasonably certain 
that not even the dandies of the 
years to come will array themselves 
in the laces that adorned the bodies 
of even the great men of years 


The fixing of April 25-27 for the date of the annual reunion of United 
Confederate Veterans and allied associations insures the enjoyment of the 
genial Crescent City at her most delightful season. Not only will the beau- 
tiful parks and tree-shaded streets be in full bravery of fresh spring attire 
but the productive market gardens of the surrounding country will be in 
full yield of delicious fruits and vegetables, enabling the hospitable enter- 
tainers to offer the gallant veterans all of those culinary specialties for 
which they have long been famed. New Orleans is easily accessible from 
all parts of the South and contains perhaps a greater mingling of the old 
and the new, the picturesque and the progressive than any other city in 
the Union. Its old French nooks tucked away between the overlapping 
folds of modern improvements, its vast shipping covering the bosom of its 
mighty river, and its many monuments, parks and other marks of civic care 
and pride, all conduce to make it a city of great interest to tourists. And no 
tourists, it need scarcely be said, can ever hope to be so received into the 
homes and hearts of the people, into the life and spirit of New Orleans, as 
the heroic remnants of the Confederate army. 

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"When God conceived the world, that was poetry; He formed it, that was sculpture; He colored it, and 
that was painting; He peopled it with living beings, and that was the grand, divine, eternal drama." 

"Monna Vanna," all the critics are 
agreed, is a profound conception, al- 
though it fails, in some particulars, to 

and vibrates because it is artistic, 
truthful and moving. The time, place 
and figures of the play, which moves 


conform to conventional stage ethics. 
M. Maeterlinck's simple and noble 
treatment of the subject, however, 
added to the genius of Mme. Kalich, 
make an appeal to the serious appre- 
ciation of the higher drama. It thrills 

at Pisa in the fifteenth century, afford 
remarkable scope for scenery and cos- 
tuming of impressive and picturesque 
character, and Mr. Fiske has made 
this a notable feature of the pro- 
duction. Mme. Kalich, who has been 

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called the " Yiddish Duse" and the 

"Yiddish Bernhardt/ ' is a Russian 

Jewess who was well known in Europe 

before she came to the United States, 

having played in more languages and 

with a larger repertoire than any other 

Member of " In the Bishop's Carriage " Company 

New York when she was persuaded 
by Harrison Grey Fiske to try an 
English role. She had to learn our 
language first, and then to learn the 


actress before the American public. 
In Roumanian, in German, in French 
and in Hebrew she has played some 
three hundred parts, although she is 
but thirty years old; and her success 
in English embodies a decided acces- 
sion to the American theater. She arthurbyron 

Was playing in a Yiddish theater in Member of In the Bishop's Carriage "Company 

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differences in methods of presentation 
of plays between the Yiddish and the 
American theater. She achieved a 
tremendous and instantaneous suc- 
cess, and it is hardly likely she will 
return to the Jewish theaters again. 

young Irish widow, shares the honors 
with the comedian himself. 

Channing Pollock's dramatization 
of Miriam Michelson's "In the Bish- 


William H. Crane has met with 
enormous success in his play, "The 
American Lord," during this season. 
Not only is this hearty, good-natured 
style of play especially suited to Mr. 
Crane's talents but he has been es- 
pecially fortunate in his support this 
season. Miss Hilda Spong, cast for 
the leading feminine role, that of a 

op's Carriage" has had a most suc- 
cessful season under the direction of 
Liebler & Co. The cast is one of 
unusual strength, and the entire pro- 
duction on an unusually elaborate 
scale. Mabel Taliaferro, who was 
with the Arnold Daly Company in 
"You Never Can Tell" last season, 
has in Nance Olden her first strong 

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emotional role and has made a hit 
in the character. 

Lovers of good music have had an 
exceptional treat in "Veronique," a 
light opera in which Miss Ruth Vincent 
is the star. This opera is French in 

sings the title part, and created it in 
London, brings to it great sweetness 
of voice. 

Marguerite Clark, as the king's 
daughter in De Wolf Hopper's "Happy- 
land," almost ran away with the honors 
during the successful presentation of 


origin, the music by Andr£ Messager, 
and the book by Vanloo and Duval. 
It is not opera bouffe, but is rather 
pure opera comique. This does not 
imply any lack of fun. On the con- 
trary, the comedy is kept constantly 
to the fore, and is in the hands of two 
of London's foremost comedians, John 
Le Hay and Aubrey Fitzgerald, and 
for the woman's share by Kitty Gor- 
don. Ruth Vincent, the star, who 

the Shubert comedy. This miniature 
prima donna danced her way into the 
hearts of the audiences and then 
entranced them further with her 
really charmingly cultivated voice. 
She is as winsome and graceful as a 
wild rose blossoming in the fields of 
fairyland, and so guileless of mien that 
you are ready to believe that she is 
really the artless little princess she 
purports to be. 

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vim* -- 

Ole Mahs Mulligan settin' on de fence, 
Chawin' his backer an' countin' expense; 
Ole hen kickin' up a dus' in de road, 
Rooster scratchin' whar de peas be'n sowed, 
Jay-birds fussin' in de back yard trees, 
Houn' dog snappin' at de gnats an* fleas, 
Niggahs all singin* a Sunday hyme 
For we done got froo wid layin'-by time. 

Ole Mistah Buzzard is a-sailin' high — 
Floatin' aroun' like he own de sky; 
Patteridge callin' fur Ole Bob White 
To gear up de lightenin' bugs fur de night. 
Rain-crow lookin' sort o' hacked an' cowed, 
Now an' den cussin' ca'se d'ain't no cloud. 
Everthing lazy an' work is a crime 
For we done got froo wid layin'-by time. 


By Julian Bouchelle 

In the world of countless thousands of human souls,, some 
greeting the golden streaks of dawn, and some awaiting the final 
call of the grim angel of destiny, Love recognizes not a social scale 
nor station in life, whether it be low or great ; nor degree of birth, 
be it humble or proud; nor poverty, nor wealth — aye, Love undying, 
always constant, does not hold in account the inequality, or disparity, 
of even mental attainments or accomplishments. There are no 
castes in the realm of Love. "All the world loves a lover," because 
the world itself has loved, knowing that when Love reigns supreme 
there is no hate, no anger, vengeance, envy, fear, no over-lording 
of man over man or woman. Love is all-sufficient unto itself. 
Love is the creator, the presiding divinity, the sole arbiter of 
human-kind. When Love dies, the world dies — all creation passes 
away and resolves itself again into chaos, 

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Animal Heroes. By Ernest Thomp- gained by that sort of investigation 
son-Seton. New York: Chas. Scrib- that gives Mr. Seton's stories their 
ner's Sons. Price, $1.50. peculiarly real and vivid quality. 

The material for this charming book 

of stories was gathered in Mr. Thomp- In and Out of the Lines. By 
son-Seton's usual painstaking and Frances Thomas Howard. New 

York and Washington: Neale 
Publishing Co. Price, $1.50. 

This war story, beautifully bound 
in Confederate gray, is a most inter- 
esting account of the occupation of 
Georgia during Sherman's March to 
the Sea. While the story of domes- 
tic privations is vividly and con- 
vincingly told there is no partisan 
spirit displayed, the simplicity of 
the narrative carrying conviction 
of its truth. This period of the 
Civil War is rich in history, and 
such unbiased, impartial accounts 
as this should be preserved in the 
literature of the century. 


"Animal Heroes." Copyright. 1905, by Ernewt 
Thompson-Seton Published by Charles 
Scribner'B Sons 

accurate way, and for this reason they 
carry not only conviction but appeal 
to the readers. It would be impos- 
sible to overrate the influence this 
writer has had in making people 
realize the hardships and pathos, the 
almost human qualities of animals 
erstwhile carelessly classed as wild 
and hence outcast. The animal heroes 
described in his latest book are not, 
however, all wild, there being various 
instances of heroism among domestic 
animals. Perhaps the most interest- 
ing one is that which contains the his- 
tory of a white Norway reindeer. To 
study this animal Mr. and Mrs. Seton 
made long trips among the mountains, 
searching for and studying the herds 
of reindeer. It is the knowledge 

A Documentary Madness, By 
Nannie McFarland. New York: 
Broadway Publishing Co. 

"Documentary Madness" is a title to 
incite curiosity and the reader of this 
daintily bound volume finds his time 
quite profitably spent in reading the 
reflections and observations contained 
thereto. These range from "grave 
to gay, from lively to severe/' cover- 
ing philosophy, frivolity and jollity. 

A Southern Flight. By Frank 
Dempster Sherman and Clinton Scol- 
lard. Printed at New York by the 

Too much praise cannot be given the 
joint production of these well-known 
poets. To begin at the beginning, the 

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books are hand-made and enclosed 
in simple, artistic board covers of 
brown, with title in black and white. 
The poems are full of feeling, and 
portray Southern themes and scenes. 
This appreciation merits a hearty re- 
ception everywhere. 

Finite and Infinite. By Thomas 
Curran Ryan. London and Phila- 
delphia: J. B. Lippincott Co. 

It is gratifying to find a book on a- 
serious question so interestingly writ- 
ten that one may follow its propo- 
sitions through the various chapters 
with the same absorbing interest ac- 
corded to the best fiction. " Finite 
and Infinite" is a clear and convincing 
exposition of the scientific basis of 
religion and so smoothly does the 
author carry his readers with him that 
they reach his conclusions without 
any perceptible jar to previously-held 
tenets. Mr. Ryan is a member of the 
Wisconsin Bar, and it is doubtless due 
to his legal training that he owes that 
directness and conciseness which con- 
constitute and add force to his style. 

A Maker of History. By E. Phillips 
Oppenheim. Boston: Little, Brown 
& Co. Price, $1.50. 

Lovers of the surprising in fiction will 
find "A Maker of History" a worthy 
successor to its notable predecessors, 
"The Mysterious Mr. Sabin ,, and 
"The Master Mummer." The plot 
hinges on the North Sea incident in 
the Russo-Japanese War, and the com- 
plications resulting therefrom. A 
young Englishman, coming accident- 
ally into the possession of secret state 
papers, and following the adventure 
in a spirit of fun, becomes the center 
of plot and counterplot, whose inci- 
dents involve his sister, her lover, and 
several more or less fascinating Pa- 
risian ladies, as well as the secret police 
of three countries. The movement 
is rapid and consistent, the technique 
excellent and the story, as a whole, 
one of absorbing interest. 

Tales from Dickens. By Hallie 
Erminie Rives. Indianapolis: 

Bobbs-Merrill Co. Price, $1.50. 

It is hardly likely that Dickens' 
vogue has passed among real lovers 
of literature but Miss Rives' book 
will serve to inculcate a taste for his 
writings in many who would not, 
without assistance, be inclined to 
take up such reading. Miss Rives 
has reconstructed and condensed Dick- 
ens' principal character stories, and 
these are illustrated by Reginald 
Birch. The book also contains a 
complete index of the characters. 

The Larkins' Wedding. By Alice 
McAlilly. New York : Moffat, Yard 
& Co. Price, $1.00. 

Miss McAlilly has given us another of 
those cheerful optimists, who, re- 
sourceful and cheerful under all cir- 
cumstances, teach us valuable lessons 
of homely philosophy, while furnishing, 
at the same time, quaint entertain- 
ment. Mrs. Larkins takes in washing 
for a living, and the little volume 
records her home life and the events 
leading up to the wedding of her 
daughter, her manoeuvers to give this 
event the proper tone and style 
being told in a brightly interesting way. 

Who's Who in America. Published 
by A. N. Marquis & Co. Chicago. 
Price, $3.50. 

This is not, as many suppose, a "so- 
ciety blue book," nor an index of 
"first families," but a careful record 
of American citizens of worth and note 
in all branches of usefulness and in- 
cludes all who are of more than local 
prominence in their respective lines of 
effort. It is purely a book of reference. 
The essential facts are succinctly and 
accurately set forth without comment 
or criticism, adulation or detraction 
and is valuable, not alone in business 
offices and libraries, but everywhere 
that biographical data in compact 
yet complete form is needed. 

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Children of the Night. By Edwin 
Arlington Robinson. New York: 
Charles Scribner's Sons. Price, $i. 

An impetuous disregard for the limi- 
tations imposed by conventional beau- 
ties of form, boundless enthusiasm and 
considerable strength characterize Mr. 
Robinson's work in this volume of 
poems. He shows himself a diligent 
seeker after truth, and treats of the 
real and inexhaustible humanities of 
life. The forceful quality of Mr. 
Robinson's work assures him of a 
high place among the virile poets of 
our time. 

Letters to Beany. By Henry H. 
Shute. Boston : The Everett Press. 
Price, 50 cents. 

Plupy Shute, whose acquaintance we 
made last year in the "Real Diary of 
a Real Boy," is before us again with 
his naive letters to his chum, Beany, 
who is away at boarding school. 
Plupy gives graphic' accounts of the 
happenings at home, and threatens 
and ridicules his chum out of a large 
share of his (Beany's) pocket-money, 
which Plupy expends to his own ad- 
vantage with the other boys, or to 
make an impression on his sweetheart. 
His alternate fits of hope and depres- 
sion, cheerful philosophy and gloomy 
resignation as his love affair progresses, 
make most entertaining reading. 

Yolanda. By Charles Major. Lon- 
don & New York: The Macmillan 
Co. Price, $1.50. 

This stirring tale of love and adventure 
in the fifteenth century is laid in Bur- 
gundy, the most highly civilized coun- 
try of Europe at that period. The 
glittering pageant, with its picturesque 
customs, centers about the Princess 
Mary, the winsome daughter of the 
seventh Charles, denominated by some 
the Victorious and by others the Rash. 
The situations are piquant, and the 
incidents adhere, with uncommon 
fidelity, to the historical occurrences 
of the period. 

Tears: A Little Book of Verses. 
By Martha Day Fenner. Illustrated 
by the author. Jackson, Tennessee : 
Thomas R. McCowat & Co. 

In a dainty dress of cream and brown 
this little volume in oblong format 
attracts the eye at once. The poems, 
grouped under the headings "In the 
Garden," "The Studio" and "Miscel- 
laneous" are full of feeling and dainty 
imagery. Miss Fenner is well-known 
for her verses and illustrative work 
which appear in the leading magazines. 
That the poems are not all as sad as 
the one which gives the title to 
the book is evidenced by the follow- 


Men and women, tea and sketches, 

Love and music then a toast; 
Midnight lunches where the rarebit 

Plays the part of jolly host; 
Genius that is well rewarded, 

Comrades, cigarettes and books, 
Bric-a-brac, old Bagdad curtains; 

This is how Bohemia looks. 

Failures, heartaches, indigestion, 

Memories of days long past; 
Lost ambition, fallen idols, 

Ideals that are shattered last; 
Works that do not bring a penny, 

Pictures landlord says are nis; 
Drudgery, and last year's dresses; 

This is what Bohemia is! 

Rimes to be Read. By Edmund 
Vance Cooke. New York: The 
Dodge Publishing Company. Price, 

There is a quality in Mr. Cooke's 
poems that touches and holds the 
interest of the reader like the cordial 
grasp of a friendly hand. They are 
all brimful of a happy philosophy, 
shining forth now under die guise of 
negro dialect and again in quaint 
Dutch or "Down East" vernacular. 
The present volume contains no chil- 
dren's poems, for which work Mr. 
Cooke made himself a name in "Chroni- 
cles of the Little Tot," one of the 
most successful of last year's holiday 

Nora — Through mistake copyright notice was omitted from three illustration* in our January issue, vis: 
" A Texas Cotton Field/' " On the Ranch" and "Branding." These stereographs are copyrighted by Under- 
wood A Underwood, New York 

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VOL. Ill MAY, 1906 NO. 2 


By Governor Taylor 


The sweetest story ever told is uttered in sighs and palpitating thrills, 
and it is wonderful the world of meaning that can be conveyed without words. 
Courting is the most ancient of all customs and the only one which repetition 
cannot stale nor change improve. It sprang, like Minerva from the head of 
Jove, full panoplied from the rib of Adam, perfect and unamendable, and 
the game as played on that first bright birthday in Eden has never been im- 
proved upon. Adam's first glimpse of Eve paralyzed his tongue but gave 
voice to his amorous sighs more eloquent than speech, and her first languish- 
ing blush was replete with wondrous meaning, a rich vocabulary of love-lan- 
guage. The custom has assumed variable forms as the ages rolled on, and 
some did it thus and some do it so, but clothe it in such stuttering phrase as 
you will, and masque it in such fumbling, trembling pantomime as bashfulness 
can assume in that tumultuous moment of its extremest inanity, it all comes 
down at last to a simple declaration of three short words — the first Latin phrase 
the boy scholar learns to translate and scratch upon his slate and slyly turn 
towards his shy little Puss, Ego amo te. The ego may be superfluous, as viewed 
from the schoolmaster's desk, but the phrase would fail to proclaim all its 
full and pond'rous meaning if the main actor be not permitted to establish 
his presence by a word set apart solely to the purpose and embellished with 
a capital letter. I have told a million people how they used to court at the 
old-time country party in the beautiful mountains, where the love-lorn swain 
led his reluctant (?) sweetheart behind the door and sat down beside her and 
held her hand for an hour and never said a word. 

Who can measure the unutterable meaning and unfathomable depth of 
expression of that voiceless communion of thumping hearts! No bard e'er 
coined such honeyed phrase nor set it to such delectable tune I No poet e'er 
wreathed sweeter words of softer pathos into diviner expression than those 

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that thrill from the clasped finger-tips of love's young dreamers and mutely 
speak in swelling, sighs! No angel's harp e'er breathed — But why further 

I am reliably informed that everywhere throughout the South and West 
where I have told this sweet tale of mountain love-making the girls have all 
taken to crowding in early at the country parties and scrambling for the chair 
behind the door. All my information has the word "chair" in the singular, 
although it may not appear to be very singular information, and I am told 
furthermore that the narrower the chair the fiercer the scramble. In my time 
they used two chairs for the first performance, hut I have known cases in which 
one of them was abstracted and not missed. They were probably sitting en air. 

Let courting proceed and chairs be unconfined. On with the dance and 
no peeping behind the door! He who would interrupt the glorious game is 
a dastard and an enemy to his race, for it is a veritable foretaste of heaven, 
a ^weet precursor of joys unborn, a palladium for future defenders of our glori- 
ous country, and the sheet anchor of the Census Bureau. 


I heard a joyous songbird sound a trilling blast from lofty perch among 
the shady boughs and pour its blithesome lay upon the perfumed winds, and 
as the mellow cadence swelled and died in answering echoes in the stretching 
corridors of beech and ash, my listening ear was smitten with the grating whiz 
of a cruel stone that came hurtling through the swinging foliage and struck 
the feathered songster in the breast and laid it low ; and looking yet again I 
saw, precocious peering, the radiant features of a barefoot boy, not yet turned 
in the teens, whose eager gaze was bent expectant towards the azure blue 
above, whose waxen ear was trained aloft to catch the thud that should an- 
nounce the dire impingement of unerring missile upon the frail anatomy of 
a bird; and peering yet still further in the tangled copse the fascinated eye 
caught the sneaking figure of a man stealing with cat-like tread from bush 
to bush nor durst to shake the dewdrop from the petaled flower lest its splash- 
ing smash upon the emerald sward betray his crawling presence to his unsus- 
pecting prey. And then I ceased to hear the songbird's gladsome lay just 
when the sombre thud betold the safe arrival of the jagged rock upon the 
region of his wind, and dropping now from twig to branch through tangled 
leaves that drooped their spears in mute but unfeigned sorrow o'er the un- 
timely end of their sweet-voiced denizen, a mangled form besmirched with 
blood fell limp and lifeless to its mother earth, where leaping forth in eager 
quest the wart-specked stripling pounced upon his prey and stooped to seize 

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it in his grasp, as simultaneously also leaped the erstwhile creeping keeper of 
the game, whose clutching digits quick betangled in the patched raiment 
of the stooping kid just where it wonts to kiss the ground whene'er 
he deigns to sit, and raising high the squalling brat he bore it from the scene, 
when sore eftsoons (whate'er that means), the mellow air mellifluous grew with 
piercing screams and vibrant swats that told again Nemesis' sure avenging 
tale and doomed a precious kid to take his meals and 'suage his stomach's 
greed a month in posture 'rect that durst not seek a seat. 

I cannot lend thee money, Horatio ; I give it thee; I cannot afford to lose it. 

Had I an enemy I'd have 

No sadder fate befall: 
If he'd a thousand legs to pull 

The grafters had them all. 


It will be recalled how Uncle 'Rastus taught his son Nicodemus how to 
get off a mule "when you sees she's gwin'ter fro you." Nick had declared 
that he would have "no more congulgions wid dat mule," because she had 
already "flung me over a' apple tree," but his fears related only to "ridin' 
uv her." The mule plowed well enough, as docile as a pet fawn (not that pet 
fawns plow), and Nick thought she would work in traces anywhere, of course, 
as all good-intentioned mules are bound to do. When his old father got up 
limping, after the mule had refused to "congulge wid him" on her back, and 
had delivered the sage remark above quoted, Nick stopped long enough only 
to see the old man straighten himself up and show his back was not broken, 
and led Beck (that's the mule) on back to the barn to feed her, remarking as 
he started : 

"Dasser way I did do." 

The next day was Sunday and Nick had a 'pintment with his girl to take 
her to a baptizing down on 'Chucky, and he was up before day and shooed the 
chickens off of Ol' Marse's old buggy that had seen its day and had been long 
stowed under a shed for the chickens to roost on. He soon had it scraped 
off and rubbed up and patched together. It wasn't so mighty long before he 
had Beck hitched up and Dinah aboard and was rattling away down the Cove. 
Nick had kind p 9 conjured up the harness with stray straps and strings and 
things and the bridle was embellished with eye-flaps cut out of an old boot 
leg and tied on the jaw-strap with the evident purpose of keeping Beck from 

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seeing backwards. It is not recorded why Nick objected to Beck's seeing 
what he and Dinah should be up to, but so it was; but it is very evident that 
Beck thought there was nothing doin' more remarkable behind her than a 
plow. Beck's only apparent perplexity arose when called on to trot. They 
had no trotting plows in those days and Beck in all her born days had never been 
subpoenaed to trot. It must be said to her just praise that she remonstrated 
not but did her duty, as she saw it, as well as any country mule could be ex- 
pected to do who could see only one way. 

Never did things appear to be going so sweetly for Nick. Dinah seemed 
to conspire with the mule to give Nick the time of his life and his spirits were 
scraping the sky when they turned the top of the last steep hill that led down 
a couple of hundred yards to the baptizing. Nick dropped his "seegyar" 
over behind the seat and let the lines loose to give Dinah a final hug, which 
Beck didn't seem to mind, and probably she never would have become inquisi- 
tive if Nick hadn't made a kind of suction noise like an octopus letting loose 
a tentacle. 

It is not for me to say why Nick wanted to kiss Dinah, nor why Dinah 
could stand it. If either of them* had wanted to kiss the mule it would be 
my duty as a faithful historian to record the simple fact without questioning 
their taste. I suppose that it is in pursuance of some unwritten law that ob- 
tains in the science of the three K's (kourtin', ketchin' and kissin') that kissing 
just naturally follows courting; after the kisser catches the kissee. Of course 
she must be caught. I have never in all my observation seen the game suc- 
cessfully played until the girl was caught. At any rate, Nick kissed Dinah 
. and the explosion attracted Beck's attention, and when she flung her head 
around to investigate she struck her jaw against the hames and broke the meas- 
ly string that held on one of the blinds, and thus for the first time she realized 
that she was not plowing. 

Does the gentle reader need to be told what Beck did? To give spec- 
tacular emphasis to what she did, Nick's "seegyar" had dropped into the 
hay he had stored under the seat behind and it began to blaze just as Beck 
tbegan to perform. 

There were several hundred gathered that day on the glittering strand 
of 'Chucky. Most of the colored population had been baptized several times, 
but they were fortunately of the ' 'fallin' fum grace" Baptists, and they were 
thus enabled to keep up in baptizing with the more numerous Methodists 
who had been carrying on a revival over in Mossy Cove ever since the war. 
Things were at the very warmest pitch and "de moaners wuz rasslin' wid de 
debble" mightily. The preacher had had for his text Elijah and the Chariot, 
and he had painted it so graphically and with such hair-raising unction that 

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many of the sisters could hear the flames of the invisible chariot crackling, 
and the vast, swaying concourse lifted its unanimous voice and sang: 

"Dat red-hot cha'iot draw right up, 
De flames wuz rollin' high, 
An' Xijah jumped aboa'd an' went 
A-sailin' to'ards de sky." 

Fervor was rampant as the elect saw visions, and the 'zorters praised and 
prophesied with many tongues, and the preacher raised his stentorian voice 
above the shouting tumult and called: 

"Lord, sen' dat cha'iot down dis minit!" 

And it came — with Beck hitched to it by one shaft, right down in amongst 
the frenzied multitude, who parted the way for it, panic-stricken. The screams 
of Dinah and the bellowing "whoas" of Nick gave it a kind of Baalam aspect, 
and as the praying hosts had only besought Elijah, they didn't know but that 
the devil was in it somehow, and they took to the woods with one tumultuous 
accord as Beck dragged her flaming caravan down the steep incline and soused 
it under the waters with a loud siz-z-z! 

Beck went on through the river with one shaft and a few of the strings 
and straps, the buggy striking a bowlder, and Nick left Dinah to rescue herself. 
Scrambling to the bank and standing there bedraggled, limp and oozing, 
he declared: 

"I 'spises dat mule wusser an* wusser ever' spe'unce I has wid her!" 

But the strangest part is yet to be told. Amid all the kissin' and smack- 
in* and Idckin* and runnin' and screaniin' and flamm' and mournin' and 
scatterin' and drownin* and draggling Dinah scrambled out to the shore and 
hadn't even swallowed her wax. 

This is the day all men may claim, 

By very best of rules: 
'Tis All Fools' Day, and all fools say 

That all men are All Fools. 


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I would rather be a barefooted boy 
with cheeks of tan and heart of joy 
than to be a millionaire and president 
of a National bank. The financial 
panic that falls like a ^thunderbolt 
wrecks the bank, crushes the banker, 
and swamps thousands in an hour. 
But the bank which holds the treas- 
ures of the barefooted boy never 
breaks. With his satchel and his 
books he hies away to school in the 
morning, but his truant feet carry 

nvious 01 tne oaiuess nook irom wmcn 
he has long since stolen the worm. 
There he sits, and fishes, and fishes, 
and fishes, and like Micawber, waits 
for something to "turn up." But 
nothing turns up until the shadows of 
evening fall and warn the truant 
home, where he is welcomed with a 
dogwood sprout. Then "sump'n' 
does turn up. 

He obeys the call of the Sunday 
school bell, and goes with solemn face, 
but ere the "Sweet bye-and-bye" has 
died away on the summer air, he is in 
the woodshed playing Sullivan and 
Corbett with some plucky comrade, 

Playing 8uHivan and Corbett with boom pluekyZaamradt 

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with the inevitable casualties of one 
closed eye, one crippled nose, one pair 
of torn breeches, and one bloody toe. 
He takes a bade seat at church, and 
in the midst of the sermon steals away 
and hides in the barn to smoke cigar- 
ettes and read the story of "One-Eyed 

grandfather's pipe with powder; he 
instigates a fight between the cat and 
dog during family prayers, and ex- 
plodes with laughter when pussy seeks 
refuge on the old man's back. He 
hides in the alley and turns the ho9e 
on Uncle Ephraim's standing collar 

Pete, the Hero of the Wild and Woolly 

There is eternal war between the 
barefooted boy and the whole civilized 
world. He shoots the cook with a 
blow-gun; he cuts the strings of the 
hammock and lets his dozing grand- 
mother fall to the ground; he loads his 

as he passes on his way to church; he 
cracks chestnut burrs with his naked 
heel; he robs birds' nests, and murders 
bullfrogs, and plays "knucks" and 
"baseball." He puts asafoetida in 
the soup and conceals lizards in his 
father's hat. He overwhelms the fami- 
ly circle with his magnificent literary 

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The wild mxuko of the mowntaini 

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attainments when he reads from the 
Bible in what he calls the "paslams 
of David" — "praise ye the Lord with 
the pizeltry and the harp." 

His father t™^ Viitn tr* frkrori r\rtt* 

day and said 

want you to 

with the wag 

tatoes while 

and see if I ca 

your mouth, 

sir, while I 

am gone; I'm 

afraid people 

will think 

you are a 

fool." While 

the old man 

was gone a 


came out 

and said to 

John: "What are those potatoes worth, 

my son?" John looked at him and 

grinned. "What are those potatoes 

worth, I say?" asked the merchant. 

Jofm still looked at him and grinned. 

The merchant turned on his heel and 

said: "You're a fool," and went back 

into his store. When the old man 

returned John shouted: "Pap, they 

found it out and I never said a word." 

His life is an endless chain of pranks 
and pleasures. Look, how the brawl- 
ing brook pours down the steep de- 
clivities of the mountain gorge ! Here 
it breaks into pearls and silvery foam, 
there it dashes in rapids, among 
brown boulders, and yonder it tumbles 
from the gray crest of a precipice. 
Thus, forever laughing, singing, rol- 
licking, romping, till it is checked in 
its mad rush and spreads into a still, 
smooth mirror, reflecting the inverted 
images of rock, and fern, and wild 
flower, and tree and sky. It is the 
symbol of the life of the barefooted 
boy. His quips and cranks, his whims 
and jollities and jocund mischief, are 
but the effervescences of exuberant 
young life, the wild music of the 
mountain stream. 

If I were a sculptor I would chisel 
from the marble my ideal of a monu- 
mental fool. I would make it the 
figure of a man, with knitted brow 

and clinched teeth, beating and bruis- 
ing his barefooted boy in the cruel 
endeavor to drive him from the para- 
dise of his childish fun and folly. If 


Pap, they found it out and I never said a word" 

your boy will be a boy, let him be a 
boy still. And remember that he is 
following the paths which your feet 
have trodden, and will soon look back 
upon its precious memories, as you 
now do, with the aching heart of a 
care-worn man. 

[Sung to the air of Down on the Flirm.] 
.Oh, I love the dear old farm, and my heart 
grows young and warm, 
When I wander back to spend a single day; 
There to hear the robins sing in the trees 
around the spring, 
Where I used to watch the happy children 
Oh, I hear their voices yet, and I never shall 
How their faces beamed with childish mirth 
and glee. 
But my heart grows old again and I leave the 
spot in pain, 
When I call them and no answer comes 
to me. 

I sometimes wish that childhood 
might last forever — that sweet fairy- 
land on the frontier of life, whose 
skies are first lighted with the sunrise 
of the soul, and in whose bright- 
tinted jungles the lions, and leopards, 
and tigers of passion still peacefully 
sleep. The world is disarmed by its 
innocence, the drawn bow is relaxed, 
and the arrow is returned to its quiver; 
the aegis of heaven is above it, the 
outstretched wings of mercy, pity 
and measureless love| 

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General Luke Wright has been 

appointed by a Republican President 

to the office of first Ambassador to 

Japan. It is not a position that would 

go begging for lack of 

Are the Days men w h Q wG uld like to 

&t£C? ? Uit - General Wright 
is a Southern man. 
Furthermore, he is a Democrat. His 
appointment is an indication of what is 
to come. The days of Calhoun are 
returning. Coincident with this ap- 
pointment came Mr. Parker's Char- 
lotte speech, in which he said what 
all are saying about the industrial 
development of the Southern States, 
and ended by favoring a Southern 
man for the next presidential nominee 
of the Democratic party. Some pa- 
pers say that when the South pro- 
duces a man of presidential calibre he 
will be nominated. The South now 
has men of presidential calibre. They 
will be nominated. They will be 
elected. The South is getting rich 
faster to-day than any other section 
of the Union. The rich get what they 
want. It will take only a few more 
years of twelve cent cotton to put a 
Southern man in the presidential 

A curious mood of Fate has aided 

this tendency somewhat. The Senate 

Committee on Inter-state Commerce 

most unexpectedly 

The steadying placed Benjamin Ryan 

Statesman Tillman of SouthCW 

Una at the head of 
the fight for the Railroad Rate Bill. 
It is generally supposed that be- 
neath this selection was a per- 
sonal insult to the President from 
those members of the Committee who 
are popularly believed to be in the 
employment of the trusts and who 
realized that the insurgent Republicans 
combined with the Democrats, who 

just now seem to be the President's 
warmest supporters, were able to 
report his dearest measure favorably. 
Their action, in this case, bore un- 
expected fruit. Mr. Tillman prompt- 
ly announced that if people left 
their babies on his front doorstep 
he would raise them as he saw fit. 
The President, while no doubt sur- 
prised that his bitterest political 
enemy had been chosen to father his 
pet measure, yet frankly acknowledged 
Mr. Tillman's good fighting qualities 
and his own confidence in the Senator's 
ability. In a quiet, conservative way, 
much unlike his usual pitchfork meth- 
ods, Mr. Tillman presented the bill. 
It has always been said that the surest 
way to steady a rabid reformer is to 
give him a position of responsibility 
and power. Certain it is that Mr. 
Tillman's enemies have been disap- 
pointed in the way he is conducting 
his part of the fight. It seemed re- 
markable enough that a Republican 
Committee should appoint a Democrat 
sponsor for the pet measure of a Re- 
publican President, passed in a Re- 
publican House, but if a pitchfork 
is to be beaten into a fountain pen 
another item of equal interest has been 
added thereto. * 

The incident has easily grown into 
one of national importance, but the 
most interesting phase of the situation 
has been overlooked. 
BaC Mrn. Up ^ his own State Mr. 
Merit Tillman's appointment 

has had a remarkable effect. The 
Newberry Herald and News, one 
of the ably-edited papers of the 
State, and one which has opposed 
Mr. Tillman steadily, sees in him now 
the making of a figure of national 
size and announces its determination 
to support him against the field in his 
approaching candidacy for re-election. 

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But it is not the personal fortunes of 
Mr. Tillman which are of importance 
so much as the recognition by his con- 
stituency of their return to power, or 
better still of their return to the confi- 
dence of the whole people, North and 
South. The magnificent showing 
made by the Southern States of recent 
years has brought about a curious 
situation. Western and Northern 
journals, not content with exploiting 
that showing are urging Southern men 
for the highest positions of trust. 
Yet some papers that are supposed 
to be representative of Southern senti- 
ment by editorial and cartoon ridi- 
cule the idea. 

The Truth and 

The situation in China seems to be 
resolving itself into a clearly defined 
attempt for independence. The real 
China is a conquered 
country, ruled by its 
former invaders. The 
European nations, as lesser fleas, have of 
recent years been added to their backs 
to bite them and it seems that at last 
they have turned. It was to be ex- 
pected. For decades now the truth 
has been released among this wonder- 
ful, tireless people. Christian teachers 
by the hundred, from Europe and 
America, have given their lives, de- 
voted, powerful lives, to them. They 
have seen what civilization could do. 

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'3 1 

They have had Western ways and 
thought illustrated before them. Bet- 
ter than all, they have had great truths 
released among them, truths that 
make nations and regenerate them. 
They have looked upon the face of 
liberty, this race of immobile folk, 
and they have been moved. After 

leaven is working. It is a great lump, 
but it will work until the whole be 
leavened. In the meantime, China 
is examining to see how "the 
other fellow r does it." Their dis- 
tinguished embassy, which is studying 
the structure of the world-powers, 
lately passed through our country. 

Who aays that -Christianity to at the bottom of the turmoil in China 

all it is truth that does things. It 
founded modern European nations, it 
established America, it caused Japan 
to enter the comity of nations, and it 
is now regenerating China. Dr. Young 
J. Allen, for more than forty years a 
distinguished missionary to Cliina, 
lately returned, tells the truth when 
he says that Christianity is responsible 
for the present turmoil there. The 

China wants to know. She has seen 
a people whom she believes far less 
capable than she defeat a modern 
power in arms and win the respect of 
the civilized world by her science, her 
modesty, her humanity. There is 
reason to believe that man for man 
the Chinaman is greater than the 
Japanese. Yet China is just beginning 
to know that hunger which comes of 

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knowledge, the hunger for more. To 
wake her is to wake one quarter of 
the world. 

The Meaning 

of the 



In the city of Nashville. Tennessee, 
there met last month the largest and 
most representative missionary body 
that had ever assem- 
bled in all the world. 
Over four thousand care- 
fully selected delegates 
from the various insti 
tutions of learning in North America, 
augmented by a number of distin- 
guished missionary leaders from 
abroad gathered for the consideration 
of the questions vital to their common 
interests. The convention was sig- 
nalized by an offering of nearly one 
hundred thousand dollars for the 
furtherance of the work of evangeliz- 
ing the world in this generation. 
Among the speakers were Robert E. 
Speer, Secretary of the Presbyterian 
Board of Foreign Missions, and Mr. 
John R. Mott, Chairman of the 
Student Volunteer Movement. This 
is probably the greatest spiritual 


Chairman of the greatest spiritual movement 

movement of the century, and has the 
further excellence of having wisdom 
for its brother and common sense for 
its handmaiden. The effect of such 

conventions upon the cities in which 
they meet is most wholesome. The 
greatness of them lies not in the num- 
ber of delegates who attend, though 


A young man of national reputation as orator and 

four thousand educated delegates, 
full of enthusiasm for a common 
cause, is a sight not soon to be forgot- 
ten, but it lies in what they left behind 
them in their homes. Each repre- 
sented others, many others, and they 
in turn represented an idea : the purifi- 
cation of the life of the earth. This, 
whether at home or abroad, is the 
pearl which a man would do well to 
sell all for and buy. 

Salaries of 

The passing by the House of Com- 
mons of a motion to pay members of 
Parliament $1,500 per vear has 
brought out some inter- 
esting d'scussion as 
to the relative value of 
free and paid-for service. Our country 
has been liberal indeed to its common- 
ers if European states be taken as the 
standard. Against $5,000 annual sal- 
ary paid our congressmen Denmark 
pays $2 per day, Norway, $3.20 and 
mileage, Switzerland, $3.80. France 
fixes the salary of her deputies at 
slightly over $1,700. This is hardly 
an age in which to expect good mei* 

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to lend a hand to politics for small 
salaries. Yet it may be argued that 
large ones will attract the lover of 
lucre rather than the lover of his 
country. Perhaps there is already too 
much money in politics. At any rate 
even with the present high standard 
of living, $5,000 per annum and per- 
quisites will seem to the average voter 
enough for our congressmen. A mem- 
ber from Missouri has recently an- 
nounced his intention of living on his 
"perquisites" and saving his salary. 
Has he been shown ? 

There is some sentiment in the 
country in favor of doubling the 
President's salary, which is at present 
$50,000 per year, and in addition there- 
to $50,000 for perquisites, comprising 
many miscellaneous items, from 
matches to Mareclial Niels. Some 
$25,000 is also paid by the government 
to White House employees, including 

the private secretary and the fire- 

The President of France receives 
$120,000 straight salary and $120,- 
000 more is allowed him for per- 
quisites. The argument for an in- 
crease in our President's salary rests 
upon the example of France, and 
our supposed duty to provide for the 
old age of our chief executive. This 
duty, though real enough, does not 
seem to be greater than that of pro- 
viding for our orphans and unfortu- 
nates in lower walks of life. None 
of our Presidents has died in want 
or ever will. It is hardly wise to say 
that large salaries are necessary to 
attract our greatest men to public 
service. The opposite is often the 
case, and money-mongers, not pa- 
triots, seek for fat jobs. Money will 
not buy greatness where honor and 
opportunity have failed. 


In a little rose garden of long ago 
The ghosts of my dead loves walk ; 

And with whispers low and footsteps slow, 
I listen as they talk. 

Ah, dear, sweet dreams of the yester years, 

Why should you haunt me so, 
With mocking fears and idle tears — 

Why should I sorrow know? 

I would drift in my boat on the sea of dreams, 

Far out from this garden so fair, 
Where the sun's warm beams on the ocean seems 

To brighten my dull despair. 

A, Maria Crawford^ 

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By Ay res Fairfax 

IN the Davis Section, in Hollywood 
Cemetery, at Richmond, stands 
the Winnie Davis monument. 
No sweeter or more restful spot 
could be found anywhere. The section 
overlooks James River, and the con- 
stant murmuring of the water is a 
sweet lullaby to the sleeping "Daugh- 
ter of the Confederacy." 

The monument is cut from Carrara 
marble, and represents an angel of 
grief holding a wreath of roses over 
the grave. 
The inscriptions are as follows: 
On the front, 

"The beloved child of Jefferson Davis, 
President of the Confederate States of America, 
and Varina Howell Davis," 

On the right side, 

"Born in the Executive Mansion, Rich- 
mond, Virginia. Died September 18, 1898, 
at Narragansett Pier, Rhode Island." 

On the back, 

"In the flower of her beauty, rarely gifted 
in intellect, this noble woman trustfully 
rendered up her stainless soul to the God 
who gave it." *M 

" Brave and steadfast, her loyal spirit was 
worthy of her people's glorious history." 

On the left side, 

"The whole country, touched by her 
blameless and heroic career, mingled its 
tears with those who knew and loved her." 
"He giveth His beloved sleep." 

At the base, 

"In memory of Varina Anne Davis, 
Daughter of the Confederacy." 

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The monument was unveiled by her 
nephew, Jefferson Hayes Davis, on the 
ninth of November, eighteen hundred 
and ninety-nine. 

This sculptured remembrance is an 
expression of love from the people, 

met her in her travels with her mother 
and sisters. 

The movement . for the erection 
of the monument originated with 
the Daughters of the Confederacy, 
and they worked in connection with 


not only of her own Southland, but 
from all parts of the country. When 
it was known that the monument was 
in project donations came" pouring in 
from every side. Winnie Davis* bright 
spirit and unspoiled nature had en- 
deared her to thousands of people who 

the Veterans. George Julian Zolnay 
was the sculptor selected, and being 
a life-long friend of the Davis family, 
his work was one of love. 

The face of the seated angel is full 
of spirituality, and the whole pose is 
characterized by deep feeling. 

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By Morgan C. Fitzpatrick 

TO briefly write of education in 
the South is difficult; to de- 
tail its progress through three 
centuries exceeds the limits 
of a magazine article; but to notice 
an occasional event of interest is per- 
missible. Puritan and Cavalier, from 
Plymouth Rock and Jamestown, with 
Scotch-Irish and French, peopled the 
South, laid waste the forests, fought 
the Indians, and founded colonies 
which were eventually to merge into 
great states. Whether inspired by 
love of liberty and adventure, or the 
acquirement of riches and lands — 
one or all — they braved much, risked 
everything and did the seemingly 
impossible. The story of their strug- 
gles, privations and triumphs reads 
like a fairy tale; the history of educa- 
tional efforts of that period is a recital 
of daring and romantic deeds. It is 
now almost three centuries since the 
establishment of "the first institution 
of learning" south of the Potomac. 
In a plain, hewn log-cabin, near Monti- 
cello, in the wilds of Virginia, the first 
school was "kept." Each settlement 

had its log schoolhouse, which was 
often the church, and in many in- 
stances the teacher became the preach- 
er. In fact, the teacher did many 
things. In the early times we read 
of one community, for instance, that 
required its schoolmaster to perform 
the following duties in addition to 
taking charge of the school; to act as 
court messenger, to serve summons, 
to conduct certain ceremonial services 
of the church, to lead the Sunday 
choir, to ring the bell for public wor- 
ship, to dig graves and perform other 
occasional duties. There was rustic 
beauty in those simple beginnings. 
These schools played their part in 
their time, and students of the twen- 
tieth century do not know — they 
never can, know — how much the coun- 
try owes to those unpretentious efforts. 
The Old Field School ivas the source 
of learning and the Mecca of students 
of that period. They are the de- 
departed ancestors of Vanderbilt, Tu- 
lane, our State universities and com- 
mon school system. The first perma- 
nent settlers were largely English and 

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Dutch. They brought different na- 
tional ideas with them. The English 
fashioned their schools after England 
and Scotland, as they had imitated 
the French before, while the Dutch, 
being more democratic, having less 
money and fewer numbers, at once set 
up elementary schools, at public cost, 
common to all. Oxford is now the 
ideal of our university men, while our 
public schools are more akin to Dutch 
than to either English or French. In 
the South was found, before the Revo- 
lutionary War, but a single college, 

in the days of Cicero; such teachers 
being commonly men who owed a 
shipmaster for passage. Many fami- 
lies, too, sent their sons abroad to be 
educated. A writer in the earlier part 
of the century speaks of the back- 
woods teachers in the South as follows: 
"Careless, inefficient teachers are em- 
ployed; in some of the lower districts 
they have actually converted the 
schools into gymnastic academies, 
where, instead of studying philosophy 
in the woods and groves, as the Druids 
did of old, they take delight in the 


William and Mary, and academies of 
permanent character were infrequent. 
At that time we had no fixed school 
policy, no definite methods, but the 
log-cabin school was the standard of 
excellence. It endeavored to teach 
English grammar, history, geography, 
surveying, mathematics, Latin and 
Greek. In Colonial days it was com- 
mon for 'Southern gentlemen to install 
as teachers in their families graduates 
of English or other European univer- 
sities. At an earlier time it was still 
more common to buy teachers in the 
market as the Romans bought them 

more athletic exercise of deer and 
rabbit hunting; and it is a fine sight 
to see the long, lean, serpentine master 
at his stand, while the peripatetics 
are scouring the woods and hallooing 
up the game." It is not strange, 
therefore, that the progress of the 
common schools was slow, and that 
the system was equally slow in gaining 
friends. There were, however, some 
honorable exceptions to the classes 
described and there were among the 
pioneer pedagogues some veritable 
educational reformers. Then, too, 
the various colleges which began rap- 

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idly to multiply, both in numbers and 
influence, were sending constant 
streams of students to teach in the 
rural schools. Whittier, in his in- 
imitable "Snow-Bound" gives a de- 
scription of this class of teachers in 
rural New England, which might 
equally well apply to those in the 

, "Brisk wielder of the birch and rule, 
The master of the district school 
Held at the fire his favored place. 
Its warm glow lit a laughing face, 
Fresh-hued and fair, where scarce appeared 
The uncertain prophecy of beard 

He early gained the power to pay 
IDs cheerful, self-reliant way; 
Could doff at ease his scholar's gown. 
To peddle wares from town to town, 
Or through the long vacation's reach 
In lonely lowland districts teach. 
Happy the snow-locked home wherein 
He tuned his merry violin, 
Or played the athlete in the barn, 
Or held the good dame's winding yarn, 
Or mirth provoking versions told 
Of classic legends rare and old, 
Wherein the scenes of Greece and Rome 
Had all the common-place of home, 
And little seemed at best the odds 
•Twixt Yankee pedlars and old gods 
A careless boy that night he seemed ; 
But at his desk he had the look 
And air of one who wisely Schemed, 
And hostage from the future took 
In trained thought and lore of book." 

One of these teachers, Eli Whitney, 
invented the cotton gin, which gave 
such an impulse to cotton production 
and manufacture; Charming taught 
in Richmond and Seward in Georgia; 
Salmon P. Chase carried on a select 
school in Washington ; and later, James 
G. Blaine taught in Kentucky. Green- 
ville, Tusculum and Washington col- 
leges, the University of Nashville, and 
a number of others are schools of 
character, which have accomplished 
much and pride themselves upon an 
honorable career of more than a cen- 
tury of usefulness. In this period 
Webster's "Blue Back Speller," "Poor 
Richard's Almanack," Bunyan's " Pil- 
grim's Progress" and the New Testa- 
ment were considered a first-class 
library. The boy who had "reached 
the pictures," mastered the "Rule of 
Three," and could "cipher" was con- 
sidered fairly educated. An occasional 

afternoon would be devoted to "Poor 
Tray," who was inconsiderately 
treated for no other reason than being 
found in bad company. 

The first fifty years of the nine- 
teenth century showed marked prog- 
ress in schools of every character, with 
the increase of population, industries, 
and commerce. Efforts, North and 
East, to establish free schools had not 
been sufficiently favored to materially 
affect the South. 

There was no national system, no 
national university and nothing like 
a state system at the century's begin- 
ning. There were only a few colleges, 
here and there an academy or high 
school, and primary schools, of in- 
different character, in cities and the 
larger towns. The Tennessee Legis- 
lature declared in 1817 that ''institu- 
tions of learning, both academies and 
colleges, should ever be under the 
fostering care r of this legislature, and 
in their connection with each other 
form a complete system of education." 
Jefferson said: "A system of general 
instruction which shall reach every 
description of our citizens, from the 
richest to the poorest, as it was my 
earliest, so shall it be the latest of 
all public concerns in which I shall 
permit myself to take an interest." 
Daniel Webster said: "For the pur- 
pose of public instruction we hold 
every man subject to taxation, in pro- 
portion to his property, whether or 
not he has children." This period is 
noted, perhaps, beyond any other, for 
the increase in educational interests 
and organized effort. In the course 
of the century a system of schools 
came to cover the land and its benefi- 
cence extends to every State. It is 
free and flexible, adaptable to local 
conditions, and yet it possesses most 
of the requisite elements of a complete 
and symmetrical system. Its coming 
was in response to a universal con- 
dition and its security rests upon the 
popular will. The parts or grades of 
this system, generally, are: 

a. Free public elementary schools 
in reach of every home in the land. 

b. Free public secondary, or high 
school, in every considerable town. 

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c. Free land grant colleges, with 
special reference to the agricultural 
and mechanical arts, in all the States. 

d. Free State universities. 

e. Free normal or training schools 
for teachers. 

f. Free schools for defectives. 

g. A large number of music and art 
schools, kindergartens, industrial, com- 
mercial, professional schools, denomi- 
national colleges, and a few privately 
endowed universities. 

This great system has grown with 
the growth of towns, cities, and States ; 
has developed with increased trade 
and commerce; has progressed with 
the advancing purpose and sagacity 
of the people. The system in each 
State is that obtained by the majority . 
through legislative agencies and is 
distinctively a State system. The 
State levies taxes for the support of 
the schools; provides for State, mu- 
nicipal, county and district super- 
vision; prescribes the course of study 
and in most instances selects the text- 
books. The county is the unit of 
school government, as it has been the 
anit of all government in the South. 

Events of the war dissipated many 
schools and destroyed others. During 
this period meager means were offered 
the masses, though the wealthier 
classes liberally supported academies 
and seminaries. Public schools, at 
the expense of the State, were pro- 
vided for all classes and races. 

In 1889 Mr. Grady said: "Since 
1865 the South has spent $122,000,000 
in education, and this year $37,000,- 
000 more. Although the blacks pay 
but one-thirtieth of the taxes, they 
get nearly one-half of the school 
funds." A large increase in expendi- 
tures has been made since that date, 
$40,000,000 having been spent on the 
education of the negro up to the pres- 
ent time. The same author says: 
"The greatest increase in average at- 
tendance is observable in the South; 
in both of the Southern divisions it 
is not only remarkably large, but it 
is to be noted that it exceeds the in- 
crease of enrollment; in other words, 
not only more pupils are going to 
school there, but also the attendance 

of those who do go is more regular. 
This is an evidence of increased ap- 
preciation of public schools not to be 

With the free school system of the 
Southern States, as a system, there is 
little fault finding. In theory it is 
complete, from the elementary school 
through secondary and high school, 
and branching from there to the in- 
dustrial or normal schools or the State 

The State universities of Tennessee, 
Virginia and Alabama not only furnish 
literary and scientific courses but are 
equipped for the teaching of civil, 
mechanical and electrical engineering 
as well. Their buildings, apparatus 
and general facilities are well up to 
the requirements of a high standard 
of work. 

It was an observation of Macaulay's 
that, "the education of the people 
ought to be the first concern of the 
State." The fulness of this obligation 
was recognized by Plato, who consid- 
ered it the duty of the State to educate 
and to make that education com- 
pulsory. The recognition of this obli- 
gation has been the means of upbuild- 
ing a system of public schools highly 
creditable. But the State has an 
interest in education that extends 
beyond the common school. She 
needs well equipped professional men, 
and aside from professional men, the 
State is interested in having men and 
women thoroughly trained in studies 
of general cultural value. A high 
grade of citizenship is an honor and 
a support to any nation. Such men 
are needed in the schoolroom, in 
editorial chairs, in the marts of trade, 
on the farms, on the street. In mod- 
ern States the character and purposes 
of the ruling power are seen in the 
trend of education. As says an able 
writer: "In France the schools must 
try to make republicans; in Germany, 
monarchists; in England, imperialists. 
In America we still boast that we 
try to make the best men and women." 
With the growth of public school 
systems came a demand for profes- 
sional teachers, and in every State 
there have been established schools 

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great good. ThePeabody 
College for Teachers was 
a pioneer in the move- 
ment of training teach- 
ers for the Southern 
States, Mr. Peabody's 
munificence being in- 
tended to benefit the 
entire South. The work 
of this college has stimu- 
lated the establishment 
of normal schools all 
over the country. In 
some States the normal 
w and industrial schools 
3 are combined, thus mak- 
| ing the development of 
| the head and the hand 
fc simultaneous. In the 
g normal schools women 
g hold the same relative 
% preponderance that they 
£ hold in the common 
g schools as teachers. The 

2 professionally educated 
g teacher finds his place 

3 in the graded schools 
g which have a regular 
^ course of study and a 
§ proper classification of 
9 pupils. The rural school, 
£ which enrolls one-half of 
ri the school children, lacks 
£ good class teaching and 
g discipline. It has not 

the precision, accuracy, 
and implicit obedience 
to the directive power 
characteristic of the 
graded schools, but with 
all its shortcomings, it 
is a great moral force 
for the sparsely settled 
regions. The " transfor- 
mation of an illiterate 
population into one that 
reads the daily paper, 
and, perforce, thinks on 
state and national in- 
terests, is thus far the 
greatest good accom- 
to give instruction in pedagogy, plished by the free public school sys- 
These schools have been the means tern. In twenty-five years, school 
of supplying an efficient teaching property has increased three hundred 
force. They dignify and professional- per cent in value, and there is a free 
ize the work and are accomplishing school accessible to every child in the 

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South. The greatest criticism against 
the system is to be offered against 
its inequalities. Wealthy communi- 
ties have trained teachers, modern 
facilities and a nine months' term, 
while rural schools are defective in 
these and have an average term of 
less than five months. The State 
should provide a nine months' term 
for every elementary school. Cities 
in New York contribute annually 
half a million dollars to educate rural 
children. Increased rural facilities 
would keep on the farm many now 
hurrying to the cities. When Dr. 
Curry was urging a North Carolina 
Legislature to increase school taxes, 
a member said, "We are too poor to 
do it." Dr. Curry replied, "You are 
too poor not to do it!" Education, 
moral, civic, intellectual, industrial, 
should be persistently, generously fur- 
nished. Unless prophetic signs are 
valueless, we have before us the most 
magnificent development in material 
values. Social and economic prob- 
lems are being solved, and skilled 
manual labor is acquiring deserved 
dignity. The wealth of coal and iron, 
unused by our fathers, is being poured 

into the world's market. The safety 
of the South is in better labor and 
better products. The necessity of 
industrial training is apparent. The 
industrial life must be based upon 
education. The schoolboy's dream of 
statesmanship must yield to desire 
for workmanship. The glory of war 
must give place to the grandeur of 
peaceful pursuits. Children must be 
taught to express their thoughts in 
work as well as in words. The health- 
ful happiness, the lasting utility, and 
the real nobility of downright labor, 
of labor wrought into things of beauty 
and value, must supplant the excite- 
ment of mere intellectual gymnastics, 
and the weariness of the mental 
treadmill. Within twenty years the 
Panama Canal will join the two oceans 
and make the South the center of 
commerce and manufactures, and give 
impulse to the development of its 
unsurpassed resources. The building 
up of the South, the revival of old in- 
dustries and the establishment of new, 
the accumulation of wealth, and the 
multiplication of schools, colleges and 
universities, will then challenge the 
world's admiration. 


She mos' certainly is breezy, 
An' she has a coolish air; 

But, law, bless you! she don't mean it, 
With the peach-blooms in her hair. 

My Ian', no! she's only coltish. 

So we give her plenty room, 
An' she bolts an' balks an' lunges, 

'Tell she's lassoed down with bloom. 

When she's wearin' them pink blossoms Then, oh, then! but she's a beauty,- 

Shows she'll settle purty soon. Every color ever seen; — 

All the birds has confidence in her — With the bluest blue of heaven 

Each one's workin' on his tune. An' the grass the greenest green. 

'Pears like she must cut her "didoes" An' our hearts a-bubblin' over, 

When she first comes on the scene, 
An' the way she blows an' screeches ! — 
But it hain't because she's mean. 

Huntin' words to help us sing — 
'Tain't no use — you jes' can't find none 
Purty 'nough fer a Texas spring! 
Mary Flanner, 

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Who, M. MiaaM&rth* Hichborne, w*s » reigning Washington belle 

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Qpejousaa. Ja 




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San Antonio, Texas 

Sharon, Ga, 

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S*n Antonio, TesM 

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By Frank H. Sweet 

HEIGH-HO!" yawned pretty 
Beatrice Clews, raising her 
hands above her head and 
allowing the book, still open 
at the last page, to slip from the ham- 
mock to the orchard grass. "What 
a prosaic old cent per cent world it 
is when one has money ! Dollars and 
dolts, dressmakers and bridge and 
balls; then a commercial marriage 
and a silly race for appearances ! Why 
couldn't I have been born — oh, Susan 
Ann, yonder, for instance,' ' as she 
noticed the farm girl crossing a corner 
of the orchard after the cows; "then 
I'd be happy. A calico dress or two, 
and a red belt and flower garden hat 
for Sunday, and Ephraim or Bill or 
Jethro to. court me over the garden 
wall with a straw in his mouth and his 
face red- with embarrassment. Would 
n't it be delightful!" a long sigh rising 
to her -lips, in which was more of envy 
than amusement. "There wouldn't 
be a : thing in the world for him to 
want but just myself, only just me," 
her voice lingering tenderly on the 
word, "And, finally, after a great 
long, old-fashioned courting, we'd be 
married, and Jethro would pay the 
minister with a bushel of potatoes or 
something, and we'd live — let me see 
— oh! in that little unpainted two- 
room cabin in the woods, and Jet would 
pay its rent with a day's work, and I 
would pick huckleberries and take in 
washings in exchange for cabbages 
and — onions to eat. There shouldn't 
be a cent of money come in anywhere, 
not — one — cent. And we'd be so hap- 
py! Dear, dear old Jet!" 

"Hello, Bee, here you are!" came 
a voice from the opposite side of the 
tree, "I'vejbeen" hunting for you all 
over thex place. " You're wanted for 

the finals — we're going to play off 
scores, you know," and an athletic 
young fellow, with eager, boyish face, 
stood beside the hammock. Beatrice 
looked at him languidly, without drop- 
ping her arms. 

"I don't care to play golf to-day, 
Bud," she answered, "nor to sit on the 
piazza and make up a game of bridge, 
nor to go on a straw ride, nor to— 
anything with the crowd. I'd rather 
lie right here and look up through the 
apple branches." 

"And talk with Jet," added Budlong 
Waite, as he dropped contentedly on 
the grass. "Where is the dog, Bee? 
New one, isn't he? I thought Curly- 
cue was .the only poodle you brought 
down. But I heard you speaking to 
Jet just as I came up. Lucky dog! 
I suppose he was jealous and sulked 
off into the grass when I approached." 

"Yes, Jet left when you ap- 
proached," with the slightest raising 
of eyebrows. "He doesn't like the 
atmosphere of bridge and golf; though 
he isn't jealous. He's too open and 
arcadian for that. But you're wanted 
at the finals, Bud." 

"I don't care to play golf to-day. 
I'd rather sit here and look up through 
the apple branches. And really, I've 
been studying all the morning how 
to get you off by yourself for a few 
moments on the links, or somewhere. 
I want to have a — a little talk, Bee." 

She slid her hands under her head, 
raising it slightly, and adjusted herself 
more comfortably in the hammock. 
There were five eligibles in the party, 
and all of them had had their little 
talks except Bud. He was the only 
worth while, sensible one of the lot, 
and she had hoped — but it was better 
to have it over than fight off a pro- 

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longation of his misery. Afterward 
he would settle down into a com- 
fortable friend, like the others. But 
a frown had gathered on her face. 

"I've only known you a month, 
Bud," she anticipated. 

"A month comprises a pretty big 
slice in a man's life, sometimes, ,, he 
declared. ' 'And we've been very good 
friends, Bee, haven't we?" 

"Y-es," resignedly, "along con- 
servative lines. You're a real nice 
fellow, Bud, when — when you main- 
tain an even temperature. That's 
what makes this orchard so much 
more desirable than the golf links. 
One can keep cool here and not get 

Bud stretched himself comfortably 
upon the grass, slipping his hands 
under his head after the manner of 
the girl in the hammock. Five min- 
utes passed without a word, scarcely 
a motion. The breeze under the apple 
boughs touched the brown rings of hair 
that twisted carelessly about the 
young man's head. It was a good 
head, a strong face, to look upon, and 
the face was growing cooler and calmer 
under the influence of the orchard 
breeze. The girl found herself look- 
ing away with something like a 

"Well ? " she questioned impatiently. 

"Well— what?" 

"Why — I thought you wanted a 
little talk, and — and to have it over 
so we could go back to our old cama- 
raderie as soon as possible." 

1 ' Um ! " He reached out and picked 
up the book, still open at its last page. 

"Ended happily," he commented, 
with a quizzical glance. 

"Yes, indeed," shortly, and with 
a certain dreariness in her voice. 
"And the hero was nothing but a 
common hod carrier, and the heroine 
a second dish girl, and neither of them 
could read or write, and their com- 
bined capital was just enough to pay 
for a trolly ride into the country and 
a dinner at a restaurant. He fur- 
ished the ride and she the dinner. 
But they loved each other just as 
much — a thousand times more than 
lovers in our own set, for there were 

no sordid calculations to mar their 

Bud's head fell back upon his hands. 

"You've had the advantage of us 
fellows, Bee," he said thoughtfully. 
"Lying here in this hammock you've 
kept cool and collected, while the 
men, as you intimated just now, were 
overheated from the golf links or else- 
where. I heard Smithers say some- 
thing to Smithson this morning that 
led me to think, er— haven't they all 
had their little talks with you in the 
orchard, Bee?" 

"Yes, all," icily, "and now you — " 

"Oh, no, no, Bee; not that," he 
protested smilingly. "I only wish 
to say good-bye, and incidentally add 
that I love you and always shall. 
You see I couldn't help it. But I'm 
not asking a single thing in return, not 
so much as a lock of hair or implied 
promise. It wouldn't be square, with 
all your possibilities and my improba- 
bilities. Still, we've been such good 
chums, with such similar tastes and 
bad habits that I'd like for you to 
know how I feel. You'll be having 
the little talks with all kinds of fellows 
right along, every day, you know; 
and after a while you'll be pretty sure 
to rim up against the one who'll make 
the world all right for you. But if 
you shouldn't in, say four or five years, 
or maybe ten, I shall come back. 
Remember, Bee, as sure as the sun 
rises and sets, I shall be back just as 
soon as I get money enough to a little 
more than match yours. I can do it. 
I have a good show now with a com- 
pany in Mexico. It'll mean a lot of 
hard work, of course, and living in a 
cabin, maybe, and doing one's own 
cooking, and a whole lot of primitive 
makeshifts; but I won't mind that, 
except being alone. Now," rising, 
"I'll say good-bye, and — " 

"In a real cabin," she interrupted, 
her eyes shining, "away off by itself, 
and do your own cooking?" 

"Well, it may not be quite that," 
he confessed. "I shall be so busy, 
you know, and may have to hire a 
Chinaman or something to cook." 

"I can cook beautifully," inconse- 
quently. "I got tired of everything 

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last" year and jwentto a'cooking school ' ' But it'll be primitive," with sudden 

and learned/ You needn't hire a dismay in her voice. 

Chinaman. You'll want to save, you "Yes, heaven knows it'll be primi- 

know." tive enough for you." 

"Beatrice!" "Then I'll go," happily. "I'll love 

[▼"Oh, I'll go,*of course," sturdily, to, with you, and to get away from 

"I'll love to." golf and bridge and — and commercial 

"Maybe it won't be exactly a cabin, propositions. Oh, you dear, dear 

Bee," he said at length, after they had old Jethro!" and then to his utter 

disengaged themselves. "The com- bewilderment she caught his face 

pany has considerable of a mansion between her two hands and kissed 

on the — the finca, I believe." it. 


"At the devil's booth are all things sold, 
Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold." — Lowell. 

Ah, what a sordid, selfish world ! When man deals out his wares, 
"Lay down," he cries, "your ounce of gold for what your fancy cares." 
And buy we must, if we obtain, for naught hath man to give, 
Since Avarice would corner all, and make us pay to live. 
An ounce of gold for so much corn, for so much meat or bread, 
An ounce of gold for shroud and pall or coffin for our dead. 
An ounce of gold — we weigh it out— each service has its price; 
An ounce of gold for grief or love — ten times as much for vice. 

Can we complain? Our wares are marked, our price we try to make, 
The ounce of gold we're loth to give, we're always free to take. 
We sell our labor and our goods; if none will pay we hold 
Till want compels our brother man to weigh his ounce of gold. 
An ounce of gold for his advice, the lawyer counts his fee; 
An ounce of gold to kill or cure, the doctor chargeth thee; 
An ounce of gold the preacher hath for telling us that grace 
Is free to whosoever will salvation's gift embrace. 

From sordidness and avarice I turn to heaven's love: 

No ounce of gold is weighed to God, in earth or heaven above; 

Free is the air he measures out/ free is the shining sun, 

No price he takes for warmth or light, or rivers as they run; 

The water that we drink is free, the perfume of the rose, 

The lilies' painted cup is free for children or for foes; 

And wealth of gold could never buy the truth he offers thee — 

Salvation cost God's richest gift, but now he gives it free. 

Free grace ! oh, praise his blessed name — free grace for rich and poor — 

Free grace alike for King or Prince, or beggar at the door. 

Freely we drink of "mem'ry's cup," and take the "broken bread" — 

A Father's ear is ever free to hear each prayer that's said. 

Oh, brothers in the marts of life, look up! The boundless sky 

Is typical of heavenly Love's all bountiful supply; 

And not for service of our hand, nor yet for ounce of gold, 

But freely, by our Father's love, His mercies all are told. 

H. E. Partridge. 

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By Carl Holliday 

O AID Hurry to Worry, 

"Now, here is our chance!" 

Said Worry to Hurry, 

"Let's lead him a dance!" 

CO Hurry and Worry 

Nabbed the poor man; 

'Twixt Worry and Hurry 
The fool's race he ran. 

OAID Hurry to Worry, 

"Now, watch him snatch gold!" 
Said Worry to Hurry, 

1 'Yes, another fool's sold L" 

OAID Hurry to Worry, 

"Now, he'll toil for a crown!" 
And Hurry and Worry 

Did him up brown! 

npHUS Hurry and Worry 

Took the poor soul in hand; 

And through Worry and Hurry, 
He grew rich, great and grand. 

OUT alas! Hurry-Worry 

Sent their bill in one day; 

And lo! Worry-Hurry 

Took the whole man for pay! 

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Facing the great Rock of Gibraltar 
on the Moroccan coast lies the little 
town of Algeciras, which, until Jan- 
uary, was merely one of thousands of 
little towns of no importance, com- 
mercial or otherwise. Algeciras has 

Great Britain, Italy, Austria, Spain, 
Russia and the United States being 
represented. The first agreement 
reached was the promise to preserve 
the integrity of the Empire of Mo- 
rocco, the sovereignty of its Sultan 


American Delegates at Algeciras, Morocco 


a Moorish name and a population 
largely Spanish. Indeed, the history 
of the two countries is so closely inter- 
woven, the Moors having held Spain 
in subjection for three hundred years 
and then being driven out and in turn 
subjugated to a great extent, that it 
is hard to trace exactly the origin of 
the existing unsettled and unsatisfac- 
tory state of affairs in Morocco. The 
insurrection and general lawlessness 
in Morocco have become a serious 
menace to the commerce of North 
Africa and the conference which met 
in January was a representation of 
the world powers, Germany, France, 

and the maintenance of v the "Open 
Door" policy. With the field thus 
made clear for just arbitration the 
other affairs were [brought forward 
in systematic order and carefully 
discussed. The question of contraband 
trade in arms was settled by giving 
France and Spain, owing to their con- 
tiguity to Morocco, especial powers 
to suppress this trade and to maintain 
tranquillity along their respective fron- 
tiers. The Sultan is to prevent illegal 
importation on the coast. In the 
creation of a Bank of the Empire, 
issuing its own currency, there was 
much delay over the details, although 

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Stenograph, copyright, 1906, by Underwood A Underwood, New York 

The world's greatest living philanthropist at his desk in a corner of his home on Fifth Avenue, New York 

an agreement on the principle was 
reached at once. The conflicting claims 
of France and Germany on this ques- 
tion involved prolonged argument, 
and the delay was increased by the 
fact that the envoys of these two 
countries were compelled to discuss 
telegraphically with their respective 
home governments every detail sug- 
gested by either side. As each ex- 
change required two days the work 
required much patience and care. 

The settlement of the Moroccan police 
question was agreed upon after much 
discussion, France objecting to the 
regulations proposed by Austria. The 
reform of taxation was hotly argued, 
Spain opposing the reservation pro- 
posed by the American delegate, Mr. 
White, that the Sultan should be per- 
mitted, as soon as feasible, to collect all 
taxes, both from Moors and foreigners, 
allowing one per cent on the latter. The 
opposition of Spain was based upon 

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the large number of Spaniards in the 
empire, which would make it profitable 
for her own consuls to collect their 
taxes. The French, British, Italian 
and Russian delegates, however, agreed 
to the plan. The work of this^con- 

and a speedy extension of its railroad 
facilities. Mr. Yoakum made his mark 
in railroad circles eighteen years ago 
when he took charge of the San An- 
tonio and Aransas Pass Railroad and 
raised it to a high state of efficiency, 


ference will result in better and safer 
trade relations for all nations whose 
commerce reaches Africa. 

In the election of Mr. B. F. Yoakum 
to the Board of Directors of the Sea- 
board Air Line the South is assured 
of an energetic promoter of its interests 

initiating the movement which has 
resulted in the development of the 
great rice and fruit belt along the 
Texas coast. Probably no other one 
man has done more for the develop- 
ment of the resources of his State than 
Mr. Yoakum. Indeed, the whole 
Southern section has felt the benefit 

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o A 

8 « 





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of his efforts, for since taking on the 
the office of President of the Frisco 
system, the chairmanship of the Board 
of Directors of the Rock Island Sys- 
tem and that of the Evansville & In- 
dianapolis Railroad, he has unre- 
mittingly pushed their extension to- 
ward the South and Southwest. In 
addition Mr. Yoakum is interested in 

tuckian, but after graduating in the 
law department of Transylvania Uni- 
versity, removed to Arkansas for the 
practice of his profession. He has 
lived in Little Rock since 1865, and 
while taking a keen interest in political 
economy, and serving on the Demo- 
cratic National Committee for a num- 
ber of years has always declined 


a number of smaller roads covering 
Southern territory. 

Judge U. M. Rose brings to his ap- 
pointment as delegate to the Peace 
Conference at The Hague a thorough 
knowledge of French, which is the 
language employed during discussion. 
He has been for many years a close 
student of French history and eco- 
nomics. Judge Rose is a native Ken- 

political preferment. He has been 
twice president of the American Bar 
Association. His family is identified 
with the social life of Little Rock, and 
the Judge likes nothing better than 
the exercise of typical Kentucky 
hospitality. He is the author of 
"Rose's Digest of Arkansas Reports," 
also many critical essays in law jour- 
nals on American and European juris- 

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By Maurice Smiley 

I would I had my childhood's eyes, I would I had my childhood's trust, 

Alone the good and pure to see. Its faith in all that .God hath done ; 

Could I but look in frank surprise When all was true and kind and just — 

On darker things as strange to me, Deceit, betraying, wrong, unknown. 

Or could I walk my childhood's ways I want my childhood's heart again 

In paths that led thro' sunny hours ! The years have stolen as they went ; 

No sting or thorn in all my days, The eyes that saw no sin or pain, 

No pitfalls lurking 'mid the flowers. My trust, my flowers, my content. 

And yet, mayhap, 'tis better so 

That tears should often dim our eyes ; 
That we should live all things and know 

By falling how to truly rise. 
It were not well that always we 

Should dwell in childhood's yesterdays : 
Alone thro' pain shall pity see 

The tears upon a brother's face. 

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By C. F. Carter 

*ITH a flower fiesta 
g in February which 
£ made the modest at- 
^ tempts of American 
^ cities in that line 
^ seem insignificant; 
4. with an ocean yacht 
race from the Golden 
Gate to Diamond 
Head arranged for 
s May; with automo- 
biles being shipped in by the gross, 
for use on the splendid coral roads; 
with the many fine hotels filled; with 
every ship bound for Honolulu crowded 
with passengers, it would seem as if 
Hawaii was at last taking its place as 
one of the world's foremost pleasure 
resorts. To speak more correctly, the 
world is just beginning to realize that 
Hawaii is an ideal pleasure resort. It 
has never been anything else since the 
canoes of the first settlers grated upon 
the beach fifteen hundred years ago. 
Nature created those Isles of the 
Blest for a place of rest; but unfortu- 
nately nature neglected to teach their 
ultimate owners the meaning of the 

word "rest." When Hawaii came 
under American influence that in- 
fluence must needs be exerted to turn 
the islands to sordid commercial uses. 
Toil and trouble were planted with 
the sugar cane. But even money 
cannot turn aside the benevolent pur- 
poses of nature. While the greater 
part of the capital invested in Hawaii 
was devoted to raising sugar, some of 
the wiser spirits put their money into 
luxurious hotels with all possible 
facilities for acquiring dyspepsia, gout 
and other concomitants of good living, 
bicycle paths, golf links, and other un- 
necessary instrumentalities for super- 
fluous exertion, and the means for 
needless haste in travel on sea and 
land. Once equipped with those re- 
pose destroying devices Hawaii began 
to attract the attention of those in 
search of rest and recreation. 

To any one who has ever been privi- 
leged to spend a vacation in Hawaii 
the wonder is not that the travel to the 
islands has increased so amazingly 
within the last year, but that it is 
possible to provide steamships enough 

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carry all who wish to go. The trip 
to Honolulu includes the pleasantest 
voyage to be f ound on any ocean, for it 
lies through the famous " Sunshine 
Belt" which encircles the globe south 
of latitude 39 degrees, in which fogs 
are unknown and bad weather and 
rough -water extremely rare. Twenty- 
four hours out from San Francisco the 
outward bound steamer enters the 
1 * Sunshine Belt. ' ' Thereafter the pas- 
senger lives on deck, dividing his time 
between admiring the delightful cli- 
mate and wondering how he is ever 
going to satisfy, without disgracing 
himself, the appetite it gives him! 
The Pacific Mail Steamship Company 
tries to solve the problem by serving 
seven meals, three of them very 
heavy ones, a day. 

Surprises come thick and fast after 
setting foot on the wharf at Honolulu. 
Probably the majority of visitors ex- 
pect to see dirt, decay and shif tlessness 
and all the other usual attributes of 
cities in the tropics. Their first sur- 
prise comes when they find Honolulu 
a most aggressively spruce and tidy 
twentieth century city of 45,000 in- 
habitants. Efficiency stares at the 
visitor wherever he turns. The build- 
ings are new, attractive and conven- 
ient, the street cars are of the latest 

models and there are enough of them, 
the streets are well-lighted and thor- 
oughly clean, the sidewalks commo- 
dious, the shops are well stocked, their 
proprietors courteous. 

Honolulu itself, with its fine, beau- 
tiful parks, its aquarium and mu- 
seum, its one hundred and sixty 
miles of streets, its charming homes 
and strange mixture of races, is 
a fascinating study. It is not un- 
usual to see a group of Portuguese, 
Chinese, Negro, Japanese, native and 
American children, with a few odd 
races thrown in for good measure, play- 
ing together in perfect harmony. In 
this mild and agreeable climate peace 
comes to the youngsters as naturally 
as squabbles do in the nerve racking 
climate of the Northern States. At 
the Orpheum Theater the same curious 
mixture of races at a maturer age may 
be seen. So beneficent are the effects 
of this wonderful climate that only 
fifty-eight policemen are require to 
keep the fifty-seven varieties of popula- 
tion dwelling together in peace and 

It is not that the climate is so ener- 
vating that it makes people too lazy 
to fight. The inhabitants move about 
with a brisk step, they are wideawake 
and are as keen in business as any from 

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a northern latitude whenever the need 
arises. The difference is that they do 
not destroy their nervous systems in 
futile fretting and unnecessary exer- 
tion. The climate in the Paradise of 
the Pacific is a sedative which is 
conducive to a serene poise. Not that 
the newcomer is willing to surrender 
to the soothing influence at once. On 
the contrary he feels it his sacred duty 

the brink one may look sheer down 
to the treetops hiding the rocks at 
the base, so far away they look more 
like weeds than trees. Lifting the 
eyes the gaze wanders down a mag- 
nificent valley girt by precipitous 
mountains and carpeted with tropical 
foliage, to the blue ocean in the dis- 
tance, with lace-fringed breakers roll- 
ing ceaselessly up on the beach. It 

Photo, Underwood & Underwood, New York 


At the table with Secretary Taft (rear one at the ri^ht) are Acting Governor Atkinson and his mother and 

Miss Roosevelt 

to see everything in the islands on the 
first day after his arrival. He orders 
an auto and sets out for a seven mile 
spin to the wondrously beautiful 
Nuuanu Pali, making the journey in 
one-half the time the inhabitants take 
for the trip and in about one-sixth of 
the time required for a satisfying 
glimpse of the unfolding tropical pano- 
rama. Nuuanu Pali is the crest of 
a precipice 1,000 feet high, which is a 
between two mountains. From 

is a view to linger over and to carry 
in the memory to the end of life. 
Even the impetuous newcomer is apt 
to take time enough on the return to 
observe that the road is a very clever 
specimen of engineering skill. It was 
cut out of the face of sheer cliffs like 
the famous Ouray toll road in Colo- 
rado. In some places a step over the 
edge would mean a fall more than a 
hundred feet before so much as a bush 
would be encountered, At one point 

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£- * 


it was necessary to build a 
retaining wall of masonry on 
a foundation of steel girders 
stretched across a gulch. There 
are enough sharp turns and 
steep grades along the brink 
of precipices to furnish all the 
thrills any reasonable person 
would ask. But it is a broad, 
safe road, and thrills are not 
really required. 

The point of interest in- 
variably second to Nuuanu 
Pali is Waikiki beach, where 
may be found notable exhibi- 
tions of daring surf bathing 
and fine eating. There are al- 
ways a lot of natives on the 
surf riding inshore from a coral 
reef about five hundred feet 
out, on the crest of a breaker, 
with a board for a saddle, just 
as they used to do in the pic- 
tures in the old geographies, 
only the reality is much more 
exciting than the pictures. 

For the second day and for 
an indefinite number of suc- 
ceeding days there is no lack 
of flew and interesting experj- native equestrian costume, the pa-v 

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ences on this one island of Oahu. 
There are splendid roads by. which it 
is possible to encircle the island in an 
automobile, with numerous little side 
trips to points of interest. Then 
there is a railroad eighty-four miles 

is a suburban colony of wealthy Hono- 
lulu citizens. 

But all these things are easy of 
access and consequently familiar to 
the casual traveler. Your true globe 
trotter is not content with this sort of 


long, which reaches all the principal 
places on the island. First in interest 
is Pearl Harbor, twelve miles from 
Honolulu, where the United States 
government is constructing a naval 
station destined to be one of the best 
possessed by any nation. Here, also, 

thing. He must get off the beaten 
track where he can enjoy scenes re- 
served for the eyes of the chosen few 
who have time and money and the 
wisdom to use both well. For such 
as these a journey to the other islands 
of the group is particularly attractive. 

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There are two lines of steamers with By the time the traveler has done 

frequent sailings, which enable the the smaller islands and the volcanoes 

traveler to move about with entire the spell of the island paradise will 

freedom. Even on the smaller islands have begun to assert itself. If he 

there are good accommodations, so loiters in Honolulu on returning 

the traveler is not called upon to from the smaller islands he is lost 

sacrifice comfort to his desire to see to the mainland forever. It is 

strange scenes. pretty certain that he will look 

The volcanoes are the chief objects up some of the numerous oppor- 

of interest. Nowhere else in the tunities for profitable investment and 

world can so many volcanoes be seen settle down to dream away the rest 

in so short a time nor so large, nor of his days in the land of eternal 

none so spectacular. spring. 


Once more in my old cabin-home, 

High up on the mountain's rough side, 
Where the stars of heaven's blue dome 

Look down and their secrets confide 
To the boy with eyes open wide, 

By the door, at dusk, seated low, 
And lists to the music inside 

From Daddy's old fiddle and bow. 

Again, with the paper and comb, 

I second the bars with great pride; 
Though musical critics may foam, 

And orchestra leaders deride, 
I dare them, whatever betide, 

More soul-stirring measures to show 
- Than the lilting old meters that glide 

From Daddy's old fiddle and bow. 

I know 'tis a dream, and I roam 

The river of By-gones beside; 
Yet Time with his deepening gloam 

Can never these memories hide; 
For that music will ever abide, 

And come with an ebb and a flow 
Of memory's waves, like the tide, 

From Daddy's old fiddle and bow. 


Friend, the giants of progress o'erride 
The things that are aged and slow, 

But my love they ne'er can divide 
From Daddy's old fiddle and bow. 

/. E. Clark. 

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By Nannette Lincoln 

3 GREAT pouring into 
a Gotham has taken 
k )) place within the last 
y quarter of a century. 
i\ From no one place 
91 has this incoming 
fij tide flowed so pro- 
% fusely as from the 
^ Sunny Southland, — 
% all parts of it, Texas, 
Louisiana, Kentucky, 
Florida, South and North Carolina, 
Alabama, Mississippi, Maryland, and 
especially from Georgia and Tennessee. 
It is now estimated that there are more 
Southerners in Greater New York 
than there are in any one city in the 
South, with the exception of Balti- 
more, and a possible exception of New 
Orleans, for they number over two 
hundred and fifty thousand people. 

The sons and daughters of Dixie 
have entered every available line of 
pursuit. Southern men are to be 
found in every profession, occupying 
high places in their chosen lines, which 
include such emoluments as public 
offices in the gift of the people. 

The Southern woman's inclination, 
however, is for literary work in its 
various branches — journalism, editori- 
al, and the making of books. In these 
branches she has achieved marked 
success — occasionally a notably bril- 
liant success. 

Kentucky has always been noted 
for brilliant and beautiful women, and 
she may well be proud of her repre- 
sentative in Mrs. William Browne 
Meloney. Mrs. Meloney opened her 
lovely brown eyes on this world as 
Marie Mattingly in the bluegrass 
region of Kentucky, and she comes of 
an old and aristocratic family. In the 
spring of 1904 she married Mr. W. B. 

Meloney, a Californian by birth, but 
now a resident of New York, and a 
member of the staff of the New York 

When a mere girl Marie Mattingly 
commenced writing. On the removal 
of her family to Washington she be- 
came associated with the Washington 
Star, and was a member of. the re- 
portorial staff of that paper for three 
years. She is one of the very few 
women who have had a seat in the 
press room in the Senate Chamber. 
On coming to New York, for a metro- 
politan experience, her first work was 
with the New York Herald, but she 
found her true affinity in the New York 
Sun, and she now is one of the 
brightest rays of that paper, Mrs. 
Meloney is one of the cleverest women 
in New York journalism to-day, and 
her work is noted for its subtle humor 
and elegance of style. She is a petite 
brunette, with large, soulful brown 
eyes, and so nun-like in appearance 
that she would never be accused of 
being a reporter. It was partly on 
account of this nun-like appearance 
that she was enabled to score a great 
beat at one time. When Elijah the 
Second, otherwise Alexander Dowie, 
was in New York, and had all the re- 
porters put out of Madison Square 
Garden by his guards as "disturbers 
of public worship/' she was passed by, 
as she carried neither pencil nor note- 
book. She has scored more beats 
than any one in the journalistic field 
in the metropolis. Mrs. Meloney also 
contributes to the leading magazines, 
among them Harper's Weekly and 
the Twentieth Century Home. 

Her repartee is never failing. On 
one occasion, in the hurry of the mo- 
ment, in writing of the Vatican at 

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Mrs. Williams was born in Mont- 
gomery County, and when quite young 
married Thomas McCulloch- Williams. 
Her literary career began upon her 
removal to New York in 1887. She 
has written a number of works of 
fiction, among them "Field Farings," 
"Niche," "Next to the Ground," and 
"Two of a Trade." She has also 
written and had published since 1892 
several serials, and over two hundred 


short stories. "In Jackson's Pur- 
chase" was a prize short story appear- 
ing in McClure's, to which magazine 
she is a regular contributor, as well 
as to numerous others. 

Mrs. Williams is a woman who has 
a sense of humor and sometimes plays 
practical jokes. A young woman was 
calling on her one day, and it happened 
to be the housemaid's afternoon off. 
In response to the caller's ring (who 
came with a letter of introduction and 
did not know Mrs. Williams) a dis- 

tinguished looking woman, with silver 
hair, came to the door. 

"Is Mrs. Williams in?" asked the 

"I think she is; I'll see," answered 
the lady. "Go into the drawing 
room." The caller did as requested, 
and presently was joined by the woman 
of the silver hair. 

"I wanted to powder my nose and 
put on a clean apron before presenting 
myself to you," said Mrs. 

Miss Viola Roseboro* is 
a native of Giles County. 
She is the daughter of Rev. 
L. S. Roseboro', and is a 
niece of Colonel Colyar, 
of Nashville. She is on 
the editorial staff of Mc- 
Clure's, and is said to 
have a genius for unearth- 
ing unknown writers, and 
has more "discoveries" to 
her credit than any recent 
editor, among them Myra 
Kelly. "Old Ways and 
New," a book of short 
stories; "The Joyous 
Heart," a novel, and "Play- 
ers and Vagabonds," a 
collection of short stories, 
are all works of her facile 
and clever pen. She is a 
woman whom her native 
State may well be proud to 

Montgomery County has 
done her duty to Tennes- 
see, as it was in that coun- 
ty that Elizabeth M. Gil- 
mer, otherwise Dorothy 
Dix, first saw the light of 
day. Aside from her literary talents, 
Mrs. Gilmer is an extremely hand- 
some and gracious woman. 

Her first work was on the New Or- 
leans Picayune, on which paper she 
was editor of the woman's department 
from 1896 to 1 901. Her "Dorothy 
Dix Talks" attracted widespread at- 
tention. For the last four years she 
has been on the staff of the New York 
Journal. Her "Fables of the Elite" 
have proved a source of delight to all 
who have read them. Their humor 

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is light and pleasing, a guise which 
she uses to bring telling truths home 
to people. She is a contributor, 


to Ainslee's, Everybody* s. and the 
Twentieth Century Home, and several 

Lilian Bell, though born in 
the West, passed her childhood 
in Atlanta, and is therefore 
claimed as a Georgian. She 
has written a number of note- 
worthy works of fiction, among 
which are "A Little Sister to 
the Wilderness," "The Under- 
side of Things," "From a Girl's 
Point of View," "The Interest 
of Step-Fatherhood," "Abroad 
with the Jimmies," and nu- 
merous short stories contrib- 
uted to magazines. 

The Old Dominion never 
fails to do her part in any 
line of talent, and she has not 
done so in this instance. Mrs. 
Myrta Lockett Avary claims 
Halifax, Virginia, as her birth- 
place, and she furnishes a nota- 
ble example of a woman who 
has come to Greater New York, 
and has won out amidst many 
difficulties. On her arrival a 
number of years ago, she be- 
came connected with the Chris- 
tian Herald, and was a mem- 
ber of its staff for several 

years. She is now a contributor to 
the secular and religious press and the 
syndicates. Her specialty is in socio- 
logical articles, and stories of tenement 
life. She has done much work among 
the tenement districts of New York, 
and here has found material for 
many pathetic, human-interest stories, 
outside of the good she accomplishes 
for the unfortunates. Some of Mrs. 
Avary's fiction has been incorporated 
in volumes of famous short stories, 
her poems in good collections, and she 
was for a time associate editor with 
Mrs. Mary Lowe Dickinson, on "Heav- 
en, Home, and Happiness." She has 
done much good work in connection 
with the Fresh Air Fund, and many 
children have found happiness through 
her loving care. "A Virginia Girl in 
the Civil War" was her first book of 
length, and her latest is in the hands 
of Doubleday, Page and Company 
for spring publication. 

A most versatile and brilliant writer 
is Mrs. Maude Andrews Ohl, the wife 


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of Josiah Kingsley Ohl, who is the 
Washington correspondent of the At- 
lanta Constitution. She writes under 


her maiden name, Maude Andrews. 
Mrs. Ohl was born in Washington, 
Georgia, and is related to General 
Robert Toombs. She is noted 
throughout the South for her wit and 
repartee, as well as for her literary 
accomplishments. She was for a num- 
ber of years editor of the woman's de- 
partment of the Atlanta Constitution. 
While in Paris, and later in London, 
she contributed to various foreign 
periodicals. She is an especially 
graphic and convincing writer, it tnakes 
no difference what her topic may be. 
Mrs. Ohl is now residing in New York, 
contributing to syndicates and maga- 
zines, among them LippincotVs and 
Everybody's. She also writes weekly 
articles for the Constitution. 

Emel Jay, which can be seen 
is a shortening of Mary Lamar Jack- 
son, was for a number of years editor 
of the woman's department of the At- 
lanta Journal. It was not journalism, 
but matrimony, which brought her to 
New York. She gave up her work in 
Atlanta four years ago, and married Mr. 
Webster Davis, of New York. But, once 
the newspaper microbe has entered into 

your system, there is no form of anti- 
toxin or vaccine virus which will ef- 
fect a cure. She was again drawn 
into the whirlpool and excitement 
of "newspapering." Besides contribu- 
ting to the New York papers, Mrs. 
Davis still writes weekly articles to the 
Atlanta Journal. An admirer of Mrs. 
Davis has said of her: "She is ex- 
quisitely beautiful, refined and re- 
tiring. Her work is done in her study, 
and when handed in is finished and 
almost classical writing. So far as 
the public knows, she never saw a 
reporter's notebook, and never handled 
a pencil." 

Miss Beatrice Sturges deserves 
especial praise for her clever work as 
editor of the magazine supplement of 
the New York Mail. She was a 
member of its staff for four years, and 
readers of the Mail will not need to be 
told of the creditable nature of her 
work. She is now connected with the 
Life Publishing Company, and is a 
contributor to the syndicates and 
leading periodicals. Miss Sturges is 
a Georgia woman. 


Mrs. Martha Gude", Anderson, of 
Atlanta, is a bright member of the 
Southern colony of women writers, 

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and holds the position of religious 
editor on the New York Globe. 

Alabama claims Mrs. Martha S. 
Gielow, a writer and reader of note. 
Mrs. Jemison, who is on the staff of 
the Smart Set, is also an Alabama 
woman. Mrs. Emma Moffet Tyng is 
another Georgian, who has won dis- 
tinction in literary work, the nature 
of which is principally fiction. Mrs. 
Hallie Dunklin is a Texan, who is doing 
some noteworthy work in Gotham. 

A new acquisition to the field is Miss 
Katharine Glover, who for four years 

was at the head of the woman's de- 
partment of the Atlanta Journal. 
Miss Glover's work is of an unusually 
quality, and the future holds great 
promise for her. She is now on the 
staff of the New York Globe. 

Two Southern writers, after long 
and successful metropolitan careers, 
have returned to their native State — 
Georgia. These are Mrs. Mary E. 
Bryan and Mrs. Emily Verdery Bat- 
tey. Both have done brilliant work 
in their respective lines — fiction and 



By H. B. Russell 

^HE "home-grown 
vegetable* ' joke is 
now abroad in the 
land and many timid 
city dwellers who feel 
the longing to delve 
in the earth as spring 
approaches will t>e 
deterred therefrom 
by reading of lettuce 
produced at twenty- 
five cents a head, onions at five cents 
each, and similar mirth-provoking 

Our family, on moving into a new 
home last spring, was moved to try 
an experiment in gardening by finding 
a small plot fenced off which had evi- 
dently been used for that purpose at 
some time, though not, according to 
our neighbors' reports, the preceding 
year. The dimensions were about 
fifteen by thirty feet, and it was over- 
grown with long bunch grass. Our 
first step was to pull up the grass, and 
this afforded pleasant occupation to 
even the wee folks, who baled the grass 
and trundled it off to the trash piles. 
We next hired a man to plow the 
ground. This cost one dollar, and the 
further expenditure of a couple of 

dollars furnished us with a spade, a 
fork and a hoe. And here let me say 
that the use of these implements more 
than repaid their cost in the acquisition 
of firm muscles and rosy cheeks. The 
first seeds sown were peas. Two 
packages were bought for twenty-five 
cents — one for an early crop and the 
other for a late variety. For these we 
made a long row on the east side of 
the garden next the fence, planting 
them, according to directions, two or 
three in a bunch, about a foot apart. 
Then we made a bed eight by ten feet 
for mustard — for we all eat "mustard 
greens." Below that we put in two 
short rows of string beans and one of 
okra, which still left space for two 
rows of tomatoes. A florist furnished 
us a dozen tomato slips for fifteen 
cents, and we set them out about two 
feet apart. This was about the mid- 
dle of April. Later a number of 
volunteers came up and we trans- 
planted these in rows. These volun- 
teers were of the Ponderosa variety, 
which we found entirely satisfac- 

Below the tomatoes we planted a 
space about twelve by seven feet, in 
cantaloupes, and around two sides of 

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this bed, next to the fence, we sowed 
Lima beans. 

We worked on our " pocket hand- 
kerchief garden," as our friends called 
it, whenever inclination and opportu- 
nity permitted — before breakfast a little 
and after breakfast until the sun got 
hot, and again in the late afternoon. 
We pulled the weeds by hand and kept 
the soil loose around the roots. Our 
interest grew as the plants increased 
in size, and certainly our knowledge 
of both plant and insect life was 
materially increased. We did not 
become so devoted to the occupation 
that we confined our reading to garden 
literature, but we did considerable 
reading on the subject. Nothing, 
however, gave us the same pleasure 
as did the use of our own powers of 

Our family numbers seven, and by 
the middle of May our garden was 
furnishing us with plentiful messes of 
mustard and snap beans. All sum- 
mer we had an abundant supply 
from everything except the peas. 
These never did well, and we plan 
next time to sow them more thick- 
ly. After our first beans were gone 
we planted more and had another 
abundant crop late in the fall. Our 
friends who, having large gardens, 
cultivated by a hired man, laughed at 
our small ' 'hand-made " spot, were 
surprised when we had tomatoes two 
weeks before they did. We continued 
to have them so late in November that 
we feared the cold weather would 
frost those remaining on the vines and 
picked a bushel and a half, from which 

we made enough pickle to last us all 

We did not spend a cent for fertiliz- 
ers, as we were conducting our experi- 
ment as much to find out our own 
abilities for the work as to find out the 
possibilities of the soil. In the late 
fall, however, we had the ground cov- 
ered with well-rotted manure and dug 
it in, so that it will be ready for plant- 
ing at least two weeks earlier this 
spring. This season we shall try a 
greater variety of quick-growing crops, 
leaving out vines which run on the 
ground and need space. For the 
same reason we shall not plant corn, 
and because we have found that canta- 
loupes require a special soil, we shall 
not try them again. Our plans this 
year include shallots, egg-plants, rad- 
ishes, sweet peppers, endive, parsley, 
cauliflower, lettuce and tomatoes. 
Next winter we shall put in a crop of 
parsnips and winter turnips and oyster 

I have not mentioned our mint-bed, 
which occupied a shady corner, and 
this year we plan to have an asparagus 
bed in another corner. 

In summing up our experience we 
find that our little garden was a source 
of immense saving in household ex- 
penses, adding luxury and variety to 
our table, not to mention the delicate 
freshness and succulence of our own 
productions. And the family is a 
unit in declaring the benefits of the 
exercise and study, benefits which 
show in rosy cheeks and increased 
pleasure in all work, mental and 

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SReietoaj ©f \$& Oft®®©® 


By Thornwel! Jacobs 


Ervin McArthur, son of "poor whites" in 
Dunvegan, North Carolina, nicknamed by 
his schoolmates "Satan" on account of his 
ungovernable temper, is the boyish sweet- 
heart of Helen Preston, daughter of an 
aristocratic family. As they grow up Colonel 
Preston, disapproving of the intimacy, at- 
tempts to break it off by securing for Ervin 
a position on the Charleston Chronicle. 
Colonel Masters, the editor of the Chronicle, 

is a native of Sudbury, Massachusetts, who, 
coming to Charleston in his early youth, has 
become thoroughly identified with the place. 
He learns to like the clever mountain 
lad and advances him rapidly in a social 
and a business way. At a Christmas en- 
tertainment Ervin becomes acquainted with 
William T. Sherman and Braxton Bragg, 
two young lieutenants stationed at Fort 


Christmas morning had dawned 
and the kine were praying in their 
stables when the guests departed that 
night. As Colonel Masters and Ervin 
stood on the broad steps waiting their 
own among the slow-creeping carriages, 
they were joined by the two young 
lieutenants. "It is a mystery to me," 
said Mr. Sherman, smiling gaily and 
turning to McArthur, "how, amidst 
so much loveliness, you can keep your 
head clear enough to take down such 
prosaic details as names, and descrip- 
tions of costumes. " 

"Ah, sir," interjected the Colonel, 
"I see you do not know your Charles- 
ton yet. A woman's name appears 
here in the papers only twice, though she 
live a hundred years — once when she 
is married and once when she dies." 

"That," answered Lieutenant 
Bragg, "is not the least interesting 
phase of the conservatism of this won- 
derful old town. Although I came 
here with numbers of introductory 
letters and have been most hospitably 
received, I am every day brought face 
to face with some new custom which 
shows me that it would take a lifetime 

• Commenced in the April number 

of study to penetrate the countless 
barriers of exclusiveness existing among 
the inner circles of society here." 

"I, for one," remarked Ervin, draw- 
ing from an inner pocket a handful of 
cigars, which he silently proffered the 
others, "make no effort to pene- 
trate mysteries. Charleston has been 
good to me, thanks to Colonel Mas- 
ters' endorsement. But I daresay 
he had to study things good and hard 
when he first- came down from Massa- 
chusetts — how many years ago, 

"More than any of you young 
fellows have ever spent in one place," 
replied the Colonel. He lighted his 
cigar at the match Ervin struck and 
puffing slowly, looked around the little 
group. "But I had an incentive to 
study and entry into society that 
some of you may possess after to- 
night." He smiled roguishly, but his 
eyes swept the whole lovely picture 
of Camellia-on-the- Ashley with a ten- 
der, reminiscent light that made firvin 
think of Helen Brooks' account of her 
mother's girlhood there. 

"A romance!" he joined the others 
in saying. "Do, Colonel Masters, let 
us have it!" But the Colonel smil- 

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ingly put them off with, "Another 
time, gentlemen/' and clambering into 
his coach called Ervin to accompany 
him. They looked back at the mili- 
tary men now following in their 
carriage and Colonel Masters observed : 

"McArthur, that was a representa- 
tive lot of men there to-night ; we shall 
meet those men again sometime. 
Fine men, all of them." 

1 'Yes, Colonel, and some fine women, 
too," he replied banteringly. 

"Yes, yes, you are right, Ervin; a 
lovely worn — some lovely women, some 
very fine women ; yes, yes, there were." 

A whole year full of days that filled 
his soul followed that eventful evening 
at Camellia. Once, when a boy, he had 
scaled the summit of Attacoa just as 
a great storm swept up from the valley 
of the Eseeolas. The wild breath of 
untrodden heights filled his lungs, and 
visions of things unseen in the valleys 
lighted up the crest of the Attacoa. 
So now he seemed to have reached a 
wonderful summit. The breath of 
great movements filled the breasts 
of the humble. Men were talking of 
things that would never happen, that 
were too great to happen, that were 
too untamed to happen. Yet to 
think of them fascinated him. The 
first gust of the storm of the 'sixties 
was sweeping upward from the deep. 
What if he, Ervin McArthur, who 
once lived in the deserted cabin that 
crouched before Sunahlee, should be 
destined to make this cloud his 
chariot? Already it seemed a long 
trail that he had trodden away from 
Dunvegan. Even the comrades of 
the squirrel hunt seemed strange and 
gawky to this plebeian who had risen 
above his caste in Charleston. Here 
he had met the great of the earth. 
Masters, who led Charleston by the 
hand, was his father and the great 
Petigru his friend. How little was 
Dunvegan, poor, dreamy village, and 
how simple the rustics who lived there ! 

* * * * * * * 

When the storm came it was sudden 
enough. The secession convention met 

in Charleston and flipped the die at 
Aries' face. There was no excited de- 
bate when the question came up. 
The whole body of delegates was 
pervaded by a serious but not somber 
air. The speakers were earnest but 
not violent. The Chairman steadily 
carried out the customary routine, and 
an observer would never have guessed 
that these subdued men were com- 
mitting themselves to an act which 
was to change the destinies of a na- 

"Resolved," said the resolution, 
"that the ordinance adopted by us in 
convention on the twenty-third day 
of May in the year of our Lord one 
thousand seven hundred and eighty- 
eight, whereby the constitution of 
the United States was ratified, and 
also all acts and parts of acts of the 
General Assembly of this State rati- 
fying amendments to the said consti- 
tution, are hereby repealed, and the 
union now subsisting between South 
Carolina and the other States under 
the name of the United States of 
America, is hereby dissolved." 

While the awed hush was still upon 
the listeners, McArthur stepped to a 
balcony overlooking the street, hold- 
ing in his hand some printed copies 
of the resolution. Below him, and 
stretching far up and down the street, 
was a sea of upturned faces, expectant, 
eager, but strangely subdued. As he 
appeared on the balcony, his eyes 
blazing with unwonted brilliance from 
his dark face, drunken Bob Dingley 
called out excitedly: "Tell us, tell us, 
tell us that we are free!" 

In the multitude he saw a face that 
looked at him eagerly. Their eyes 
met, and he noted with a twinge of pain 
that she was pale and frightened. A. 
strong desire to leap through the 
crowd, to enfold her in his protection, 
and soothe her timid fears swept 
over him. He forgot the mass of 
surging beings below him. His whole 
horizon was filled by that tense, ap- 
pealing figure, his whole being vi- 
brated with sympathy for her in the 
cruel position in which she would t>e 
placed by the act just passed. 

Then the face of Helen Preston 

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flashed across his consciousness and he 
realized, with a keen pang, that he had 
for the first time in his life been un- 
faithful to the little mistress of Su- 
nahlee. To the multitude below it 
seemed that not a muscle of his im- 
passive face twitched, save a slight 
dilation of his nostrils as he paused for 
a brief fraction of a second before 
throwing the half thousand printed 
sheets down upon them and called 
out : ' ' Passed unanimously ! " 

Then it was that the city went wild 
with demonstations of joy and the 
shouts of the multitude filled the air. 
Suddenly, as if the angels had caught 
up the refrain, the bells of St. Michael's 
began to ring, and from the Cooper to the 
Ashley, Charleston gave way to mad 

Martial music mingled with the huz- 
zas, bands bearing palmetto branches 
marched triumphantly through the 
streets; the Marseillaise, stirring the 
hearts, was heard on every side, and 
high over and across the streets 
great bales of cotton with "The World 
Wants It" emblazoned upon them, 
were swung from building to building. 
The surging crowd took the leaders 
of the convention upon their shoulders, 
and none save a few sad-hearted men, 
contained themselves for very joy. 

The little angel that seemed ever 
trying to fly from the left to the right 
side of the City Hall, seemed to join 
triumphantly in the hubbub with its 
slender trumpet. 

Bob Dingley stood upon a box which 
he himself had brought, by the door 
of St. Andrews, and shouted continu- 
ally: "Hurrah for the Independent 
Republic of South Carolina! Damn 
the Yankees! Hurrah for the Pal- 
metto State!" until the dark-eyed 
journalist who had heard the voiceless 
cry of a frightened woman, came out 
through the door and said roughly: 

"Shut up, Blatherskite; this is no 
time for fools l*' 

Then the noise hushed and Bob 
Dingley slunk away until the Inscrut- 
able had passed. 

When Charleston was drunk with 
joy, the news flashed over the wires 
to Columbia, Augusta, Savannah, and 

to towns and villages all over the land, 
listening in impatience for the ringing 
of the church bells that would proclaim 
secession an accomplished fact. Ev- 
erywhere the populace was wild with 
delight. Bonfires, speeches, bell-ring- 
ing, cannon firing, everything a peo- 
ple could do to express its pleasure, 
they did. All over the South Atlantic 
the bells were ringing with joy. 


On that very day, by an open fire 
in the editorial room of the Charleston 
Chronicle, two elderly gentlemen were 
sitting, and for a moment there had 
been silence between them. One of 
them sat in an office chair which had 
been tinned away from a desk scat- 
tered over with papers, notes, clip- 
pings and letters. Plainly he was the 
editor, Colonel Masters. The other, 
looking thoughtfully into the fire as 
though he would read there an answer 
to the question he had just asked, 
drummed his fingers upon the cloth- 
covered arms of Colonel Masters' chair. 

In look, in tone, in bearing, they 
were masterful men, both of them, 
and gentlemen of the old school, too, 
as could be told from their dress, black 
broadcloth suits, tall dickey collars, 
with flaps turned far upward and out- 
ward, and gentlemen's boots, well 
polished. Two high silk hats were 
hanging upon the rack behind the door 

"You have not answered me, Colo- 
nel. What then?" 

It was the younger of the two that 
asked this question again, and his 
small, dark eyes turned with a jurist's 
frankness and incision toward the 
editor. His long hair, too, which, 
falling over his ears, even touched the 
collar of his Prince Albert, was neatly 
dressed, and his smoothshaven face 
was large and strong and ruddy. The 
lips were thin and often compressed 
tightly, and their lines were lines of 
strength. The mouth was straight 
and large and well formed, and the 
voice, characteristically shrill, but 
with the ring of greatness in it. Many 
voices seemed blended into his as he 
asked the question; 

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1 7 6 


"What then?" 

Colonel Masters raised his eyes 
from the fire where he, too, had been 
gazing, and looked frankly at his 

"You see, Petigru, I was born in the 
midst of Yankeedom, in the noble old 
Commonwealth of Massachusetts, with- 
in a stone's throw of the Wayside 
Inn. Do you know that it almost 
seems to me that I can remember 
when the Constitution was adopted 
in 1788, and New York and Virginia 
expressly reserved the right to secede 
from the new Union? And also the 
great debate of 1790, when Congress 
dismissed the petitions that came 
from North and South for the abolition 
of slavery, saying she could not 
abolish the institution. It was that 
year that Massachusetts and all 
New England threatened to leave 
the Union if the State debts were 
not assumed by the common govern- 
ment, and if the capital were moved 
South; and so warm became the de- 
bate that the South, to save the 
Union, agreed to compromise, and the 
debts were assumed. That was the 
first clash of interests and the first com- 
promise, and from that day to this it 
has been one clash and one compro- 
mise after another, accompanied by 
so many threats of disunion, that now 
neither side believes the other, and the 
hour has come to act. A good, 
hearty, unanimous secession will do 
more to help along constitutional 
liberty than many years of noisy 
wrangling.' ' 

The dark-eyed jurist was stroking 
his chin thoughtfully, as was often his 
way. When a short silence had 
elapsed, he raised a well-formed hand 
with a deprecatory gesture, and look- 
ing up from the fire, said, in a tone 
of infinite sadness: 

"But Masters, you have not men- 
tioned, perhaps you have not once 
thought of the law greater than the 
Constitution, as Seward puts it; the 
law of that God by whose hand the 
great flag floats, and will, some day, 
float from Greenland to Panama. 
Two trees may agree to live side by 
side rnd each reserve the right to 

swing away from the other whenever 
the wind of passion and self-determi- 
nation blows, but after years have 
passed, and trunk has grown into 
trunk until there is but one tree, to 
separate them is to expose the vitals 
of both, and you might as well hew 
them down as fuel for the nations. 
There is not room enough on this con- 
tinent for two Anglo-Saxon races. 
To secede is to cut a living organism 
in twain. It is as though the lower 
half of a man's body were to secede 
from the upper, as though a wife were 
to say to her husband, 'Our tastes 
are not the same; we must part, cut 
our house in two, and divide the 
children.' It is neither honorable nor 
wise. Why, Colonel, I believe I am 
a better American than you are — 
but Massachusetts has always been 
a hotbed of secession." 

They smiled at one another at that, 
for it was really an odd situation. 
"Let not any man," rejoined the 
Colonel spiritedly, "say that he is a 
better American than I am. There is 
but one flag in all the world, and I love 
it with all my heart, and I could never 
learn to love another. It was over 
me when I first saw the light in Sud- 
bury. I found it the pride of dear old 
Charleston, when I came here a boy in 
1803, and for fifty-seven years I have 
not been able to glance at its folds 
without a quickening heart. You 
forget the Palmetto regiment, Petigru, 
you forget how we lifted our flag at 
Vera Cruz, and were not content until 
we planted it in Mexico City. Do 
you remember Churubusco? Do you 
remember how General Shields re- 
solved to take the impregnable po- 
sition bristling with guns and pikes, 
and how he asked the Pennsylvania 
and New York regiments to do it? 
Don't you remember how their hesi- 
tation vexed the impetuous general, 
and he rode before the Palmetto boys 
and asked General Butler and me 
whether our men were willing to clinch 
the victory with a charge? Sir, it was 
a prize to be grasped at, and I an- 
swered him, ' Every man of them, and 
to the death!' Ah, Petigru, it was 
a tornado that swept the Mexicans 

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from their holdings that day, and the 
old flag was above us, leading us on. 
The General said it was the greatest 
charge ever made under it, and it was 
my regiment that did it, all except 
Captain Mayne Reid, and ten men 
from his New York company, who 
begged leave to quit their regiment 
and go with us. Go to Columbia and 
read the inscription on the monument 
to the twelve hundred men that 
formed the Palmetto regiment, and 
the three hundred that were left to 
come back. Look at this medal, 
Pctigru — were you not a member of 
the legislature that voted one to each 
of us? No, no, my good friend, I will 
never let any man say he is a better 
American than I am. See my amu- 

They turned their eyes to what 
seemed at a distance a picture, hang- 
ing on the wall above the editorial 
desk, but as one came closer, it could 
be seen to be an exceptionally beauti- 
ful piece of Mexican featherwork. 
It was meunted on cardboard, as a 
handsome photograph would be, and 
held in a square gilt frame. It was 
all in feathers, black, brown, gray, 
scarlet, white and blue, yet so per- 
fectly was it done that a novice would 
have wagered his last shinplaster that 
the hand of some skilled artist had 
done it with his brush. 

"I brought it back from Mexico," 
said the Colonel, "and I have swung 
it about the neck of my office — it is 
my amulet.' ' 

A fitting one it was for the man 
who had led the Palmetto boys. A 
great American eagle, dark-winged, 
sharp-beaked, bright-eyed, hovering 
above its nest. Upon its breast the 
aegis of the States in blue and red and 
white. In the right talons three 
sharpened arrows, in the left an olive 
branch, beneath the nest the stars and 
stripes. "Over them all the great bird 
hovered, the snow of the North upon 
its grayish neck, the fires of the South 
in its eyes. 

"That flag, Petigru," he said with 
reverence and awe, "is my father, my 
mother, my wife, my children — my 

Then his tone of reverence changed 
to one of infinite bitterness as he re- 
membered the days that had followed 
his soldier career. He turned slowly 
to his desk. "Listen to this, Petigru/' 
he said. "It appeared in the Chroni- 
cle yesterday." He read: 

"Just twenty years ago, in the 
Federal Congress, Mr. Dellet of Ala- 
bama asked Mr. Adams of Massa- 
chusetts whether he understood him 
to say 'that the abolition of slavery 
would come, and let it come.' Mr. 
Adams nodded assent, and added with 
great earnestness : ' Let it come ! ' Mr. 
Dellet replied in infinite irony : 'Yes, 
let it come, no matter what the con- 

"'Let it come/ says the gentleman 
from Massachusets. 

"'Let it come, though women and 
children should be slain, though 
blood should flow like water, though 
the Union itself should be destroyed, 
though the government should be 
broken up, no matter though five 
millions of white people of the South 
perish!' And Mr. Adams answered: 
'Five hundred millions — let it come/ " 

Colonel Masters laid the clipping 
on his desk with a look of disgust. 

"And that was the man who pre- 
sented a petition from the citizens of 
Haverhill, Massachusetts, asking Con- 
gress to dissolve the Union !" he said 
as he turned to Petigru. But the 
jurist was rising to go, and his face was 
sad. His lips were parted as though 
he would speak, when suddenly the 
sound of distant cheering rent the air, 
coming nearer and nearer. The two 
men looked at each other, as it was 
taken up by voice after voice, and for 
a moment neither of them spoke. 
Then Mr. Petigru laid his hand quietly 
on the older man's shoulder and said : 

"It has come!" 


As he rang Mrs. Corbin's gate bell 
Ervin McArthur mentally summed 
up his work on to-morrow's Chronicle. 
He had given out the assignments, had 
read the exchanges and had prepared 
his own copy and then had hastened 

Digitized by 


1 7 8 


to his lodgings for a volume on engineer- 
ing which he had read late into the 
previous night. The idea of an iron- 
clad battery possessed him completely. 
His mind dwelt on the project at every 
spare moment and so full was he of 
his subject that he shunned his usual 
haunts and friends and brooded con- 
stantly over his idea. Colonel Mas- 
ters and Mr. Petigru and other serious 
men to whom he mentioned the scheme 
pooh-poohed it as impracticable and 
urged him to join one of the regiments 
then forming. He never realized how 
it came about that he unfolded his 
plans to Helen Brooks, but as he stood 
waiting for admittance this evening 
he did realize that the habit of con- 
sultation with her had grown a help- 
ful one and a dear one. 

She stood waiting for him in the 
library. A large student lamp, green- 
shaded, sat on the round table which 
held rolls of cambric maps and a set 
of engineer's drawing tools. They 
wasted no time in personalities of 
greeting, but between them flashed 
a deep and simultaneous glance of 
comprehension, as they took their 
places at the table. He opened the 
book and began reading, explaining 
as he read. His voice was vibrant 
with eagerness but his face remained 
darkly impassive, as usual. Only his 
eyes flashed luminously now and then 
and his hands twitched nervously as 
Helen deftly guided the bright com- 
pass and quadrant over the drawing 
board to illustrate her understanding 
of the points or to offer an eager sug- 
gestion. Her grasp of things mechani- 
cal was marvelous. As Ervin watched 
her eager, animated face, her flying 
fingers, her whole forceful, fascinating 
personality, he seemed to be moving 
in a swift, bright dream towards the 
goal of great achievements. A curious 
sense of elation possessed him, and 
this in spite of the frequent vision of 
a sweet, fair face, whose blue eyes 
looked at him with a complete trust 
that stabbed him. However, he 
pushed this vision aside and absorbed 
himself in his plans and Helen Brooks 
— he could not separate them. She 
was an integral part of the work and 

the work was a personification of her 
skillful help. At the close of a lengthy 
calculation in which their results 
tallied, she impulsively grasped his 
hand, crying " Eureka !" With the 
compass still poised she searched his 
face for some answering enthusiasm. 
A momentary gleam in the somber 
eyes seemed to pass like an electric 
current through the space between 
them and to draw them involuntarily 
together. Helen's eyes fell and she 
raised her hand uncertainly. As the 
bright metal dividers reached the 
level of her throat, rising rounded and 
firm above a narrow band of black 
velvet, Ervin found himself seized 
with the strange excitement he had 
felt in his childhood at the sight of 
a sharp knife, and his right hand, which 
had closed on hers, tightened its 
grasp to fierceness, while his left 
clutched eagerly at the shining little 
instrument. A dim curtain of dusty 
red obscured Helen's face and his 
throat seemed suddenly swollen to the 
point of choking. Then, like a sooth- 
ing benediction to a parched soul in 
torment there floated between him 
and the hideous temptation a gentle 
face, which looked at him with com- 
plete trust from out a frame of soft, 
golden ringlets. With a groan he sank 
back into his chair. Helen, raising 
her eyes, caught a fleeting glimpse of 
the expression of the fleeing daemon, 
and terrified, whispered: 

" Oh, what is it?". 

" Helen," he replied, rising and 
walking nervously towards the fire- 
place, "I cannot tell you — you must 
never ask me — it — I — oh, Heaven, why 
was I born?" 

The light died from Helen's eyes. 
Her cheeks, a moment since rounded 
and soft with the life and animation 
of interest and the spirit of youth, 
seemed to sink into drawn lines, her 
whole figure, instinct with the expres- 
sion of vitality, drooped heavily. 
She laid the compass down and cover- 
ing her face with her hands fell back 
in her chair. 

"Oh," she sobbed, a complete re- 
vulsion of feeling coming over her, * 'oh, 
why did I ever leave my own home? 

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I deserve to be punished — I've for- 
saken my father, my home and my 
own people!" 

"Helen, Helen!" pleaded Ervin, 
in his agitation crushing a cambric 
map into a ball, "don't tempt me be- 
yond my strength! If I told you 
all you would despise me!" and seizing 
his hat the miserable man fled from 
the house. 

Two endless days passed and then 
Helen wrote a simple line, "Shall we 
take up our work?" Ervin resumed 
his visits, and though there was a pre- 
ponderance of seriousness for a time, 
their mutual absorption in the plans 
and the excitement of the times, 
resulted before long in an almost com- 
plete renewal of their old-time unre- 
strained ardor. 


There came a night a week later 
when McArthur felt intuitively, as he 
walked beneath the shadows of Legare 
Street on his way to Colonel Masters' 
that something was about to happen. 
A species of nervous exhilaration, a 
sense which had seldom failed before, 
possessed him. The city had never 
seemed so beautiful, though he had 
written to the editor's daughter more 
than once of its wonderful tones of 
color, soft grays of every degree, dull 
reds and browns, whites grizzled by 
tlie sea breezes, and sober yellows 
and buffs. 

He came at length to the great stone 
wall that surrounded the Colonel's 
yard, built by a former owner to keep 
the negroes off the streets at night, 
where they were not allowed without 
a permit, but cutting off the view 
from the street, and making the garden 
private as a secret. Like all real 
Charleston houses, it was built with 
its gable ends to the streets, and its 
piazzas, one on each story, facing the 
garden at the side. On top of the wall 
were broken bottles, whether for cats 
or for the uninvited, he could not say, 
and the door bell was on the locked 
gate by the street, where the caller 
must wait for admittance. In com- 
mon with its fellows it showed the 

Huguenot ancestry of the city in little 
Frenchy touches of its architecture, 
but en masse they made Charleston 
seem more like an old English town 
than anything else. The high brick 
wall was stuccoed gray, and clustering 
vines trailed over its summit. 
Through the iron gateway roses could 
be seen blossoming in the moonlight. 
A double gallery faced the southern 
exposure, and the posts of the gates, 
with a dark, evergreen background of 
semi-tropical shrubs and trees in the 
garden, made one of the prettiest bits 
of colonial architecture to be seen in 
many a day. It was all so lovely and 
so familiar, and so like a picture he had 
seen somewhere, that Ervin stood 
looking through the iron gate at the 
fountain and flowers for a while before 
ringing for entrance. 

There was a scarcely audible swish 
of silken skirts, and his quick eye de- 
tected a woman's form in the shrub- 

He could hear tones subdued yet 
excited, as of voices that would soon 
break over the limits of prudence. In- 
stantly his interest was excited, and 
his nostrils began to dilate in their 
curious fashion. What could this 
woman be doing at night in Colonel 
Masters' private yard, and who could 
be talking to her so? 

They moved toward him. He could 
hear the voices now and distinguish 
some words, enough to correct his first 
impression. The man was not Colonel 
Masters. He was tall and fair and 
handsomely dressed, and spoke with 
a finished accent. His voice was low 
and soothing in quality, but the woman 
seemed exasperated beyond all en- 

' 'What do you mean by following 
me in this way," she asked bitterly, 
' 'and forcing me to make an appoint- 
ment in Colonel Masters' garden? 

Ervin McArthur's brain reeled. He 
caught at the iron gate and its cold 
bars steadied his trembling frame. 
The woman was Helen Brooks ! 

"Helen, darling, what will not a 
man give for his Hfe?" 

"'His Hfe!'" in infinite disdain- 

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"and 'darling!'" in illimitable con- 
tempt. "Never call me that again. 
It is not your life but more money 
from Colonel Masters for keeping his 
secret about that woman. Why do 
you not tell me who she is — what is 
the secret, if you love me so? Why 
do you hound my steps and Colonel 
Masters', and — " 

"Stop, Helen, there is a limit to my 
endurance!" he said hotly. "You 
despise my love, and I know why. I 
know the young rebel who writes for 
the Chronicle, and by the gods of 
Elysium and Hades, he shall not have 
you. I — " 

"Mr. Donovan, you do not know how 
wildly you talk. The gentleman to 
whom you refer does not care for me 
at all. You know a secret of Colonel 
Masters', which for some reason of his 
own he would not have known for the 
world, about some woman, and your 
threats to expose him ^et you money 
and you trade on my affection for him 
and hint at some mystery connecting 
me with it. Do you think that I, 
Helen Brooks, would marry a black- 
mailer, a blackguard — a rascal — " 

Enraged by her bitter words he 

struck her roughly in the face, and 

something that shone brightly in the 

■ moonlight was drawn quickly from 

his bosom. 

The blood of the young highlander 
fairly boiled within him. His hand 
clenched tight, driving the nails into 
the flesh. Little darts of flames 
flashed from his eyes, as with the 
agility of a backwoodsman, he sprang 
over the wall. 

"Coward!" he panted, his clenched 
fist seeking the stranger's face, "there 
— there — there is where you struck 

In the excitement of the moment 
he failed to note the features of his 
antagonist's face, or his surprise would 
have been greater than his anger. It 
was the hurling of an infuriated bundle 
of nerve and muscle against a coward 
taken unawares. With a cry of pain 
the assailant struggled frantically and, 
freeing himself, took to his heels in- 

"It was McArthur, damn him, the 

impudent peasant upstart!" he mut- 
tered vindictively. And with curses 
not loud but deep he fled down Legare 

Ervin turned to Helen, who had 
made an effort to run toward the house 
but had sunk on her knees, her face 
buried in her hands. 

"Pardon me, Miss Brooks," he 
apologized, "I did not mean to be an 
eavesdropper, but when he struck you, 
I — for shame, there is blood — ah, only 
a little bit — the tiniest drop! May 
I wipe it away? There, the brute!" 

"I hardly know how to thank you, 
sir, or to explain. You must think 
it very strange to see me here — and I — 
I — really must ask you to let me out 
of that gate — at once — I must go 

He undid the catch. 

"It is not incumbent upon a lady 
ever to explain," he said politely, 
"but you must at least grant me 
the seeing of vou safe to Mrs. Cor- 

She was deathly pale and trembling 
so violently that Ervin, shaken as he 
was by conflicting emotions, could not 
forbear supporting her. She relaxed 
helplessly into the circle of his sinewy 
arms. Her body shook with tremors 
and from her dry lips her breath came 
in gasps. Ervin, speaking to her 
soothingly, guided her gently toward 
the gate and by the time it was reached 
she was herself, but the magnet had 
touched the armature, and they could 
never be strangers again. During 
that short walk the whole scenery 
of the drama had been shifted, and 
at least one act cut out of the 

"Mr. McArthur," she said with deep 
emotion, "I am sorry you came when 
you did. He knew you, I saw by 
his look that he knew you. He 
will kill you if he can, even as he would 
kill me. Oh, I wish I could tell you, — 
I wish I knew more to tell you." 

Her hand still rested on his arm, 
and he saw that her glove was half 
torn from her fingers. There was a 
fleck of blood upon it. 

"May I have it?" he asked simply, 
gently drawing it off. 

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She saw him looking at the little 
red spot and a tremor went through 
her body. 

"If you will make me a promise," 
she replied. 

" Willingly. " 

"Never mention this incident to 
anyone, to me, to the Colonel, to 

"It was unnecessary for you to 
ask it." 

"I know it; I would not give you 
the glove if I did not know it." 

He did not notice until he came to 
his room that night how near a knife 
had come to his heart. His shirt was 
torn into tatters, and the small strips 
flying in the breeze made him look 
like Jonathan Edwards returning from 
a ride with paper thoughts pinned all 
over his person. 

He lit a cigar and thought it all 
over, and the more he thought the 
more he found himself asking what 
was Helen Brooks doing in Colonel 
Masters' yard at night? Why should 
she have chosen that retired spot for 
a conference of so startling a nature? 
What relationship existed between 
these two? What could it all mean? 
At length, tired of the puzzle, he 
picked up a letter from Sunahlee that 
lay upon the table. 

"Wasn't it Lowell," Helen Preston 
wrote, "who said once that one of the 
happiest things in life was to have as 
many ties as possible with whatever. 

is best in our own youth — to be 
pledged as deeply as possible to our 
own youth ?" 

He closed his eyes for a dream of 
home, and the winter had come in 
far away Dunvegan — the fallen leaves 
were rustling low in hushed whispers of 
death and murmuring jealously against 
the somber evergreen of the pines. 
Already the winds of Attacoa had 
brushed a flurry of snow over into the 
Eseeola Valley to hasten the squirrel 
in gathering his winter store, and the 
little, deserted nests of the birds were 
filled to overflowing with its flakes. 
The rabbits looked cautiously behind 
them as they paused at the half -con- 
gealed brooks, lest some chuckling son 
of humanity should already have 
followed their footprints; and the 
merry-hearted sparrows were fluttering 
from the swaying sedge to the red- 
berried holly, chattering all the while 
about the buried seeds. The hunters, 
too, were knocking the snow from 
the burdened limbs, and beating every 
weedy ditch lest the dogs should have 
failed to scent the game. The night 
would come shortly, and a face would 
be pressed against the window-pane 
at the big white house watching for 
one to come from the cabin — he would 
go — and — 

With a start he awoke and remem- 
bered that there was no ring on the 
finger of Helen Brooks when he left 
r her at her gate. 

[To be continued] 

Digitized by 


Author of "The Story of Sarah/' ''The Ship of Dreams," "Dutchtown Stories," etc. 

New York City, , 1906. 

Bless your heart ! Dear Boy-down- 
yonder, do please stop fussing about 
the possible hardening effect of this 
New York life upon my character. 
Of course I own right now that I am 
no longer the shy, retiring girl who 
joined in your horror at the thought 
of her entering the ranks of the ' 'co- 
eds" at Vanderbilt University when 
Nashville first tried that daring ex- 
periment of mixing boy and girl 
students. Your "fawn-eyed Dixie- 
girl" has been out too long in that big, 
co-educational college of the business 
world to be a shy, retiring little thing 
any more. Shyness, lovely, adorable 
quality though it is after candle-lighting 
time, has no place in business hours, 
and as for the retiring quality, when 
there is no circus to see that is very 
well — then I would delight in nothing 
more than in going back to the wash- 
ing of Grandma's fragile teacups and 
the mixing of the Colonel Grand-Dad's 
mint juleps — but while the circus is 
going by, pray, would you have me 
anywhere but on top of the fence? 

Now, sir, be honest, Billy: you 
taught me to sit on top of the fence. 
My! I don't like to think how long 
ago that was! "The place to see 
things is on the top rail!" you used 
to shout, and we certainly did see 

And so, while the procession is 
a-swing, I sit on the top rail and take 
notes for the magazine folks, but 
when the day of open eyes and heedful 
ears is over, I come back to my den — 
to this blessed resting place of the 
spirit — sink down into the little, low 
rocker, put my feet on the fender 

(where there ought to be four feet) 
and think how much more joy I shall 
get in writing to tell you all about it 
than in tip-tapping, pitter-pattering 
it off on the typewriter for those 
magazine folks. You didn't know I 
had an old-timey grate fire and a 
fender, did you? and that every night 
I have but to shut my eyes and see 
standing in the chimney corner ghost 
after ghost of far-off, by-gone days. 
Ah, there are things a-plenty about 
New York that you do not know. 
New York is old and young, young 
and old; full of memories if you will 
but listen, full of promises for the 
most heedless ear and eye. She is 
the past, she is the future, and you 
can not catch up to her now to save 
your life. She is — she is New York ! — 
and she is every place in the world 
beside. She cries: "I am mighty, 
mighty, mighty, but you, Little You, 
be yourself that you may make me 
mightier!" And so there never was 
an Irishman more Irish than the Irish 
of New York; and never a Japanese 
with more dreams of the lotos land in 
his Oriental eyes than the convention- 
ally dressed Japanese of New York; 
and never a Chinaman in all China 
more flagrantly Chinese than the wide- 
shirted Mongolians of Mott Street; 
and never, dear boy, was there another 
Southerner so staunchly, steadfastly, 
loyally Southern as your little old 
Dixie girl. If you could shut your 
eyes this minute and spirit yourself 
up from the Southland into this room, 
then pop your eyes open and look 
about — no, no, not at me! at my New 
York room — you would swear that 
you were but a stone's throw from 

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old Church Street in Nashville, and 
you would fairly hear the ringing of 
the same, sweet old Presbyterian bells 
in your ears. 
Fifth Avenue is only two blocks 

neither day nor night. I go to bed 
saying the old love prayer for you and 
the folks down home, thinking to lose 
New York in slumber and, lo! all 
through my dreams I hear the electric 

I have but to shut my eyes and see standing in the chimney corner ghost after ghost of far off , by- 
gone days 

away and if I were to push open that 
lattice window and lend my ear to 
the night, I could hear the chug, chug 
of the horses' hoofs on the asphalt 
pavement. Ah, the procession is al- 
ways with you here; there is rest 

cars going by beneath the window, the 
thunder of the subway (there is a 
station right at this corner), the 
tinkle of the bells on the little, old- 
fashioned horse cars that run down 
the side street; and, with it all, the 

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1 84 


real or the fancied chug, chug of those 
horses' hoofs going all night long, it 
seems, up and down, down and up 
Fifth Avenue. Where do all those 


my ear to the night 


flit-by-night carriages come from? 
Where are they going? Which were 
sent out by good fairies and which 
by bad? Some day I shall get 
the wisest, deepest old cabby horse 
in New York to tell me all about 

I chose this little home of mine at 
last, you know, because it is so unlike 
the New York I had dreamed of in 
Nashville. Did I tell you that it is 
one of the landmarks of Gotham, a 
famous old homestead of Knicker- 
bocker days? It is a staunch, faithful 
frame building, incongruous enough 
now in this city of brick and stone, 
turned, I reckon, since it could not 
remain as it was, by its life-long love 
of hospitality — would you deny the 
old place a heart because we cannot 
hear its beating? — turned into a res- 
taurant beloved of Bohemians down- 
stairs; and, upstairs, left almost as it 
used to be, with such rooms and halls 
and unexpected corners and attic- 
chambers, broad stairways and in- 
viting landings, as would make your 
b^nrt ache for the days when your 

great-grandmother gathered her rose- 

Now, Billy, I know exactly what you 
are saying. The word Bohemian 
leaped out of the page and struck you 
in the face. "It cannot be the proper 
place for a Southern girl to live." 
Dear cluld, it is the most respectable 
place in New York to begin with. It 
has an entrance on the side street, so 
I need not go through the restaurant 
unless I choose. And Miss Sampson, 
the dear, impossible, lion-strong, child- 
hearted spinster who runs it, guards 
me with even more fiercely tender care- 
fulness than did old Mammy Lou. The 
place is not a sure-enough rooming 
house. Miss Sampson only took me into 
this charming old room under the eaves 
because she fell in love with me down 
in the restau- 
jant. Can you 
imagine any 
one's falling in 
love with me, 
bad Boy-down- 
yonder? I used 
to come in and 
sit in a corner 
of the restau- 
rant under a 
clock two hun- 
dred and fifty 
years old, and 
watch the peo- 
ple a great deal 
and eat not 
quite so much, 
when one day 
Miss Mamie 
(that's what I 
call her now) 
took it into 
her head that 
I looked sick 
and asked me to come upstairs and 
lie down. It was only homesick- 
ness, and when I came into this 
room and saw the little, country-like 
muslin curtains at the swinging, lat- 
ticed windows, and the fire all red 
and cosy in the grate, I broke down 
and cried. Was not that shameful? 
And then — Miss Mamie took me in. 
Of course I pay for the rooms — there 

Some day I shall get the 
wisest, deepest old cabby 
horse in New York to tell me 
all about it 

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is a tiny bedroom adjoining — but if 
I had not had a cent, she would have 
taken me in just the same, and that 
brings me to the starting point of this 

Why will you persist in thinking 
that every one who lives in New York 
and does "business here must sooner 
or later acquire the heart of an asphalt 
pavement and the habits of a steam 
roller? No sentiment in New York! 
No sentiment among her business men ! 
There was a time when I thought that, 
too, and mighty bitter was the think- 
ing, but just let me tell you something. 
We were in the Orange Room at the 
Astor to dinner the other night — Mr. 
and Mrs. Barclay (you know he is a 
professor of English at Barnard Col- 
lege and she was a New York society 
girl whom he married in spite of her 
money) and my friend, the Undis- 
covered Genius, bless his crazy old 
head ! Mrs. Barclay, who has deliber- 
ately drift ed out of the swirl of the smart 
set herself since her marriage, pointed 
out the well-known New Yorkers to 
me. It happened that the place was 
full that night of men with other men's 
wives, and women flirting scandalously 
with other women's husbands and — 
divorcees. You know how old-timey 
I am about those things and then, too, 
I had just finished reading "The 
House of Mirth;" and, somehow, in 
the midst of that blazing stir of life 
set to the beat of music beneath the 
green and orange bower of the ceiling, 
in spite of the splendor and beauty 
and the maddeningly sweet strains of 
the music, I felt of a sudden lost and 
sick and I wanted you and Nashville. 
I felt myself choking back a horrid 
old something in my throat, and then 
Mrs. Barclay looked at me stead- 
fastly. When she spoke again, it was 
in quite another tone. 

4 * Little girl," she said, "are you 
judging the whole by this small, glar- 
ing patch of the whole? Then I am 
sorry that we brought you here. 
There is as much truth and love and 
steadfastness in the high places of 
New York as there is in your own 
favored circle of Nashville . Now, I wa n t 
you to look at that couple just sitting 

down at the little table in the corner." 
I looked and saw a courtly old gentle- 
man, with a long, white beard, and a 
beautiful, sunny woman, who looked 
perhaps twenty years younger. Then 
I glanced back questioningly to Mrs. 

"That couple," she said, "have been 
married almost fifty years. He is 
sixty-eight and she is sixty-six. There 
are no old ladies in New York. When 
he was twelve and she was ten, they 
lived diagonally across the street from 
each other down on Stuyvesant Square 
— which was the fashionable part of 
New York then. And she used to 
stand in her window and flirt with him 
as he stood in his. Their fathers were 
old business friends, and quite willing 
that the boy and girl should meet, 
but her father was a great old fellow 
for killing two birds with one stone. 
The little girl had had a cough all 
winter long which she had positively 
refused to treat with medicine. One 
day her father brought home two big 
bottles of cod-liver oil and said: 
"'Daughter, as soon as you have 
taken these, I will bring your window 
sweetheart over and introduce him.' 
She took the two bottles in a week." 

Now, Billy, by that time I was 
staring at the old couple and, do you 
know, she has him watching in 
the window yet! Somehow the sight 
of those two and their story changed 
the whole color of the Orange Room 
for me. I loved the place then as the 
beautiful, happy thing that it is, and 
all that I lacked was the touch of your 
dear hand under the table instead — 
No, I wasn't! He was only trying. 
It's a habit of the Undiscovered Genius. 
It means nothing at all. He knows 
that I am engaged to you— condition 
ally for the tenth time. Well, to go on. 

She went to boarding school after 
that and he sent her valentines which 
the children and the grandchildren 
have now. They are funny, old- 
fashioned lace things, all over hearts 
and cupids and arrows, and, inside 
there is poetry, not printed in prosaic 
type, but written in his schoolboy 
hand and signed, "Guess from Whom." 
She never had another sweeth^rt 

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1 86 


He never had another girl. (Gracious ! 
that's like you and me!) And, like 
you again, he is ridiculously jealous 
even yet. That comes from her look- 
ing so young and his looking so old. 
He thinks when he takes her out that 
every man in the room is admiring 
her, and she doesn't know what in the 
world to do about it unless she gets an 
old lady's gray wig to cover her own 
lovely brown hair. Maybe you think 
it sounds silly, but they have been 
caught holding hands at the theater. 
I think it is beautiful myself, and I 


"A drunken teamster from India Wharf" 

wish I could see him bend over her 
chair, as they say he does in their own 
home, and ask: "Mother, do you 
love me?" 

And so New York is New York — 
hard, soft; wicked, good; true, false; 
the highest and the lowest. 

Oh, pig-headed old Billy, why will 
you send your objections by telepathy 
all the way from Nashville as I write ? 
"That isn't in the business world!" 
I read the message. Yes, sir, there 
is sentiment among the business men, 
too, and I'll prove it to you. Near 
our table that same night at the 

Astor, was a table of six men and one 
of them was the Cuban banker, Juan 
M. Ceballos. He is a man with more 
interests than you can shake a stick 
at, and among all the other interests 
he owns the India Wharf Brewery of 
Brooklyn, and is now foremost in a 
plan to bring about the consolidation 
of all the breweries serving Greater 
New York. You would not think 
that a Captain of Finance, who gets 
such $50,000,000 schemes as this into 
his head every day in the week, could 
have time for sentiment, would you? 
But he does, and I will show you right 
now that it pays sometimes, too, for 
had it not been for his sentiment Mr. 
Ceballos might never have had a brew- 
ery at all. He was using the India 
Wharf property as a sugar refinery, 
when one day there came from the 
refinery to the banking house in New 
York, a teamster, * mighty drunk and 
mighty loud, who demanded to see 
Mr. Ceballos. The office boy was for 
putting him out, so were all the 
clerks, but he would not go, and made 
such a row that Mr. Ceballos sent out 
from his inner office to ask what was 
the trouble. 

"A drunken teamster from India 
Wharf to see you, sir," explained the 
indignant office boy. 

"A teamster?" said Mr. Ceballos. 
"What's his name?" and on being 
told — "Mike's been a good teamster. 
Show him in!" The fellow had not 
a dollar to his name but he explained 
that he wanted to buy the India 
Wharf property for a brewery and 
this proposal set Mr. Ceballos to think- 
ing at such a rate that he began to 
make preparations for turning the 
refinery into a brewery on the spot. 
And he engaged the teamster — made 
sober forever by the surprise of it — 
as superintendent of the new brewery 
that very afternoon. Now, if you will 
find sentiment in the origination of a 
New York brewery, where won't you 
find it? 

But I can do better than that, yes 
I can. They are building a huge build- 
ing just up the street. And one of 
the hod carriers working there last 
week had fallen desperately in love 

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with a girl who was a waitress in one 
of those extraordinary health food 
restaurants that I am going to tell you 
about some day. Well, finally he got 
up the courage to propose to her one 
evening and she said that she would 
give mm his answer the next night. 
All the next day, going up and down 
the ladders, he was thinking about his 
sweetheart's answer, and finally he 
became so worried for fear that she 
would say "No," that his head took to 
swimming and he fell down and broke 
his arm . Sentiment ? Well, sir ! She 
came to the hospital to see him and 
there was a great crying and a great 
laughing. Said she, pulling a long, 
severe face, after she had kissed him : 
"If you had only had sense enough to 
keep a steady head, I would have told 
you 'No' to-night, and 'Good-bye to 

"Then, faith!" said he, "I kin never 
be too thankful that I could no kape 
a stiddy hid!" 

And now here is my final argument. 
You will stand silenced, dumb before it. 
Miss Mamie, who was raised on a Long 
Island plantation, or farm, keeps a 
few chickens for pets in the back yard 
— sentiment again, although this is 
not where I win my point. The other 
night, when of a sudden it had turned 
freezing cold, she went out to see that 
they were locked in the coop, for, like 
all New Yorkers, they do not know 
day from night and, when respectable 
country fowl are asleep they have been 
known to fly plumb over the board 
fence and, headed by Peter Stuyve- 
sant, the pugnacious, lame old rooster, 
go on a scampering, silly, side-long 
run just as fast as ever they can 
toward the blazing lights of Broad- 
way. This always stirs up an amazing 
rumpus in the street, collecting a 
crowd of all sorts and conditions of 
men, for a brood of live chickens run- 

ning loose in New York is almost as 
unusual as an army of live mummies. 
(The fact is, Billy, I have seen more 
vitalized mummies here than I have 
living hens.) If Miss Mamie and 
her peculiarities were not so well 
known, that feathery band of rascals 
would have been up before a judge 
long ago on the double charge of va- 
grancy and disturbing the peace. But 
as it is — sentiment again, but even 
yet not my point — they always 
come home dragging a peaceable, 
friendly, solicitous policeman behind 

Where was I? Oh, yes, I started 
out to prove to you that even the 
hens in New York have sentiment. 

When Miss Mamie looked in the 
coop that cold night, there were all the 
hens on their perches, but what do 
you think were perched on the hens? 
On each warm, feathery back there 
snuggled a dozen sparrows, as saucy and 
cosy and comfortable as you please. 
Peter Stuyvesant's back alone was un- 
peopled by little bird-folks. He held 
his head up, wide awake, his glassy 
eye roving furiously, and furiously 
demanding : ' ' Pray, have the sparrows 
taken New Amsterdam?" 

There are so many of the little birds 
here that sometimes I think that way 
myself. Well, Billy, I have given 
you a glimpse of a funny little old New 
York, haven't I? Never fear, you 
will hear enough about the other side 
later on. I am so glad that we have 
made up the last foolish quarrel, for 
I needed you to write to. 

Don't forget that I love a certain 
Boy-down-yonder. And I do not 
think that he — the Undiscovered Gen- 
ius — really meant to catch my hand 
under the table. He might have been 
groping for his napkin. 

As ever, 
Your Dixie Girl. 

[To be continued] 

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By W. C. Frost 

AFTER the battle of Auster- 
litz the Emperor of Austria 
withdrew from the coalition 
he had formed with the 
Czar Alexander of Russia and made 
peace with Napoleon. Russia was 
thus left to fight Napoleon alone. In 
such a contest it is not difficult to 
say what would have been the result. 
Alexander, however, was soon rein- 
forced with another ally. Ten months 
after the battle of Austerlitz Prussia 
declared war against France. There 
was no real reason why she should 
throw her sword in the scale against 
Napoleon. There were two causes, 
however, that called out her action. 
One cause was the feeling of jealousy 
and alarm felt at the growth of French 
influence and the predominance of 
Napoleon over the continent of Europe. 
This feeling, it may be stated, was 
shared by every nation in Europe from 
Napoleon's rise until his fall. The 
second cause of Prussia's action was 
the influence of England. 

The Emperor of the French was 
hailed as the greatest monarch the 
French had known since the days of 
Charlemagne, one thousand years be- 
fore. Napoleon was also King of 
Italy and, what was the most irritating 
to Prussia, he was the Protector of 
the Confederation of the Rhine. This 
confederation consisted of Bavaria, 
Wiirttemburg and Baden, and nearly 
all the lesser states of southern Ger- 
many. All these states had volun- 
tarily given their adhesion to the 
French, or rather to the Napoleon 
style of governing, because his gov- 
ernment was more modern, more 
vigorous and more liberal than any 
other. Napoleon gave their people 

more privileges and cut off some 
of the favors of the nobles. 

If, however, these peoples preferred 
the protectorate of Napoleon to that 
of the Prussian monarchy the latter 
government had no just cause to 
complain. The introduction into these 
German states of the Democratic 
ideas of the French Revolution and 
the abolition of the powers and privi- 
leges of the nobility, awakened in the 
minds of the military aristocracy of 
Prussia feelings of the deepest hos- 
tility against Napoleon and against 
France. A powerful war party was 
formed in Berlin, heeded by the queen 
and composed of the nobility. The 
common people did not wish for the 
war. But their opinions were not 
asked for. The king of Prussia was 
also opposed to the war. He was a 
timid and weak monarch and was a 
firm disbeliever in any kind of action, 
mental or physical. He, however, 
was ruled by his queen and the 

At this time no state in Europe was 
more governed by the military spirit 
than Prussia. The greatest military- 
genius Prussia ever produced, before 
or since Frederick the Great, had been 
dead only twenty years. Prussia had 
been born and bred in camps. The 
veteran officers of the Great Frederick 
still reviewed her battalions. Her 
army had always been well cared for. 
Its maneuvers were as perfect and its 
drill as exact as in the days of Freder- 
ick, but they were the same maneuvers 
and the same drill. Prussia had for- 
gotten that the world moves even in 
war. She also overlooked the fact 
that now she had to deal with an op- 
ponent who was not of the same 

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stamp as the French generals whom 
Frederick defeated. She forgot that 
she had to contend against a inan who 
carried the longest and sharpest sword 
that had been seen in Europe since 
the days of C^sar. 

The united influence of Queen 
Louise, the titled aristocracy, and of 
England, overruled the objections of 
King William. Mr. Pitt was Prime 
Minister of England. He was the 
leader who formed the coalition of 
1805. England, under the direction 
of Mr. Pitt, had furnished a great part 
of the money to Russia and Austria 
in the campaign that resulted so dis- 
astrously at Austerlitz. She had en- 
deavored to induce Prussia to join the 
combination but had failed. This has 
always been England's policy. She 
plays one nation against another, and 
if any government gets too strong 
she seeks to form combinations or 
adopt a policy that will weaken the 
strong government. 

The Duke of Brunswick was placed 
in command of the Prussian army. 
He was seventy-two years old and had 
gained distinction under Frederick the 
Great. The other leading officers were 
Prince Hohenlohe and General Mol- 
lendorf . They were also too old and 
infirm for the labors and duties of a 
vigorous campaign. The Prussian ar- 
my was, in fact, full of superannuated 
officers. The troops were of excellent 
material, but their tactics were an- 

The Prussian commanders decided 
to take the offensive and strike Napo- 
leon at once. This decision showed 
that they did not know Napoleon. 
They had never met him in battle and 
had not learned anything from what 
they had heard or read of him. With 
such an antagonist as he had proved 
himself to be it was obviously the 
policy of Prussia to await the arrival 
of the Russian army, when the two 
armies could have combined and 
presented a stronger array against 
the great French emperor. In their 
plan of campaign and their behavior 
the Prussians showed too much of the 
haughty spirit that goeth before a fall. 

The united forces of the Prussian 

army amounted to one hundred and 
fifty thousand men, confident in then- 
own courage, in the rigid discipline 
which continued to distinguish their 
service, and in the animating recol- 
lections of their victorious career 
under the great Frederick. They were 
reviewed by their beautiful queen on 
horseback, and as she rode down their 
lines she was greeted with the most 
fervent and touching enthusiasm from 
the thousands who promised to die 
for her. The young Prussian officers 
went to the home of the French Am- 
bassador in Berlin, and whetted their 
swords on the stone doorsteps. When 
Napoleon heard of this he drew his 
sword and declared that his sword 
needed no whetting. 

Then the veterans of Frederick the 
Great marched against the victors of 
Marengo and Austerlitz. But the 
movements of the Prussians were 
vacillating. First it was resolved to 
concentrate at Weimar and fight, 
finally it was decided to retreat upon 
Magdeburg. These hesitating move- 
ments took time, and Napoleon did not 
lose an hour. Before the Prussians 
were well on their way he was 
upon them. He began his campaign 
according to his custom, by a series 
of partial actions, fought at different 
points, in all of which the French 
were the victors. This tended to 
force the Prussians to a decisive 
battle from necessity, not choice, 
in which under baffled and out- 
witted generals, they were to fight 
with the French soldiers, who had al- 
ready obtained a foretaste of victory 
and who fought under the most re- 
nowned commanders, the combined 
efforts of the whole being directed 
by the master spirit of the age. 

Such were the unfavorable circum- 
stances under which the Prussians 
entered the double battle of Jena and 
Auerstadt on the fourteenth day of 
October, 1806. 

On the evening of the thirteenth 
of October Napoleon, with his main 
body, consisting of the corps under 
the command of great generals like 
Ney, Soult, Lannes and Murat, came 
up with the Prussians in force, under 

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the command of/ Prince Hohenlohe. 
The' Emperor at first supposed he had 
before him the entire Prussian army, 
but in fact it was only about half of 
it, the other part having retreated 
several miles farther north. To divide 
their army when about to fight Na- 
poleon was a terrible mistake, and 
dearly did the Prussians pay for it. 
Napoleon lost no time in sending 
Marshal Davoust after the other body 
of retreating Prussians, and Davoust 
came up with them at Auerstadt. 

All night long Napoleon worked, 
placing his men and cannon where 
they could do the most effective work 
on the morrow. The French army 
occupied an extended plateau. When 
the morning dawned the Prussian 
army lay below them, extended on 
a line of fifteen miles, while that of 
Napoleon was extremely concentrated. 
Napoleon made a short but stirring 
address to his troops, as was usual 
with him. He told them to stand 
firm against the Prussian cavalry, 
which had been represented as invinci- 
ble, and he promised them a repetition 
of Marengo. His soldiers answered 
with loud shouts and asked to ad- 
vance instantly against their ancient 

The Emperor ordered the columns 
destined for the attack to descend 
into the plain. His forces outnum- 
bered his enemies. He had sixty 
thousand, the Prussians thirty-five 
thousand — the only battle he ever 
fought in which the disparity in 
forces was in his favor. His center 
consisted of the Imperial Guard, after- 
wards called the Old Guard, and ten 
thousand men under Marshal Lannes. 
His right was commanded by Marshal 
Augereau, while Marshals Ney and 
Soult had the left. The Prussians 
went into the battle with no chance 
whatever. Outnumbered through the 
folly of their generals, outgeneraled 
by the superior skill of their antago- 
nists, there was nothing for them to 
do but to stand up and fight like 
soldiers and accept their fate. And 
fight they did with great resolution 
and courage, but to no purpose. 

General ^ Mollendorf advanced on 

his side at the same time as did Na- 
poleon to begin the attack, but the 
field was covered with so thick a fog 
that they could not see each other. 
Suddenly, however, the atmosphere 
cleared and showed each army to the 
other, with only a few hundred yards 
between. The conflict instantly be- 
gan. It began on the French right, 
where the Prussians attacked with the 
purpose of driving Augereau from his 
position. The Prussians were in su- 
perior numbers at this point and were 
about to overwhelm the French, but 
Augereau bravely held his ground until 
Napoleon sent Lannes to the aid of 
his marshal. The battle then became 
general and extended all along the line. 
The Prussians showed themselves such 
masters of discipline that it was long 
before the French could gain any ad- 
vantage over them. They advanced, 
retired or moved to either flank with 
the regularity of machines. Marshal 
Soult at length, after the most des- 
perate efforts, drove back the Prussians 
opposed to him in the woods, and at 
the same time a division under Ney 
and a large reserve of cavalry under 
Murat appeared upon the field. Na- 
poleon then ordered the Imperial 
Guard to advance. This body, con- 
sisting of picked troops, had never 
known defeat. They, being fresh and 
in the highest spirits, decided the battle 
and compelled the Prussians to give 
way. Their entire line fell back, at 
first slowly and orderly, but it was a 
part of Napoleon's tactics to pour 
attack upon attack upon a defeated 
enemy like the billows of the ocean 
that follow each other in rapid suc- 
cession. The retreat of the Prussians 
soon became a rout. Murat, at the 
head of his dragoons and cavalry, 
charged as if he would merit by brav- 
ery the splendid destiny of King 
of Naples, which awaited him. The 
Prussian infantry could not stand the 
shock nor could their cavalry protect 
them. A greater part of their artillery 
was taken and the broken troops fled 
in the greatest confusion and disorder 
upon Weimar, where they met an 
equally large body of terrified Prus- 
sians fleeing from the battlefield of 

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Auerstadt, where Marshal Davoust, ers in the course of the day. The 

one of the ablest of Napoleon's gen- commander of the Prussians, the Duke 

erals, had gained a great victory. of Brunswick, was killed, and nearly 

When the two fleeing armies thus every officer of rank on their side was 
met the greatest terror and disorder either killed or wounded. The French 
prevailed. All leading and following captured three hundred of their can- 
were lost among the Prussians so non and captured twenty of their 
lately confident in their numbers and generals. Of all the Prussians who 
discipline. There was scarcely a gen- fought on that memorable day the 
eral left to issue orders, and scarcely only one who ever redeemed himself 
a soldier to obey them. The King of was Field Marshal Bliicher, who nine 
Prussia himself narrowly escaped cap- years afterward came to Wellington's 
ture, and was forced to leave the high- assistance in defeating Napoleon at 
way and take to the fields. Waterloo. 

On the fatal fourteenth of October, Ten days after Jena Napoleon 

1806, the military power of Prussia entered Berlin in triumph at the head 

was destroyed. Twenty thousand of his army, the Prussian monarchy 

Prussians were killed or taken prison- at his feet. 


By James P. Taylor 

Nature has modeled some men and women after Christ-like ideals, and 
fixed upon their characters a mark of nobility which cannot be mistaken, and 
yet whose subtleties are hard to grasp and define. She seems to have con- 
ferred upon them at birth a sort of sacred order of knighthood which sets them 
apart from ordinary humanity, yet makes them both its models and servitors. 
If all mankind could be raised to this high standard, receiving the royal stroke 
of this glorious knighthood, the doors of the millennial age would swing ajar: 

"The sword would rust, man's bloody strife would cease, 
And war dethroned proclaim the reign of peace!" 

But what is the secret of the power and personal charm of the true gen- 
tleman? I would answer: First of all, he hides the ego under a veil of uncon- 
scious modesty, and crucifies self on the cross of sacrifice and service. He 
makes complaisance the tempering oil of his deportment and speech; he re- 
ceives the cruel point of another's wit on his shield of good humor, and foils 
his own with the golden button of charity and good breeding; he gloves the 
cold, harsh finger of truth in the silken velvet of tact, and thus handles capricious 
humanity as safely and sweetly as an apiarist handles his bees. And as for 
the true gentlewoman, the secret of her all-conquering power lies in the one 
word — graciousness. * 

Graciousness is the fragrance of her virtues, the sunshine of her nature, the 
summer dew and refreshing rain of her goodness distilling upon the garden of 
the heart and calling forth into bloom and fruitage whatever is best in humanity 

" When prudent nature grace of form denies, 
Her graciousness a rarer charm supplies ; 
Or, blest with both, when in a few* decades 
Her tresses whiten and her beauty fades , 
Then all the lovelier, all the more divine 
The gracious glory in her face shall shine I " 

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By Read McKenrick 

OU have to skin the 
coat off of the ma- 
jority of men be- 
fore you can tell 
whether their fancy 
duds happen to be 
hitched up with 
store suspenders 
with posies worked 
on them, or with a 
piece of buggy har- 
ness, or jest one 
home-spun gallus and a ten-penny nail. 
That's why I've alwus said that ap- 
pearances are — jest appearances, and 
he that is roped in thereby wins a seat 
with the smart town Alecs, or hankers 
to trot with the crowd that used to be 
in the banking business in that State 
out West behind Pittsburg. Of course 
some things are better than they look 
— there's oysters — and some are worse 
— there's skunks. 

Now, anybody that's drivin' past 
and looks at Cal Higgins putterin' 
around his place, cuttin' wood and 
servin' meals regular to his Berkshire 
ham and sausage plants would never 
plank down much cash money on him 
to win out as a literaturist. But he 
got his flyin' start by literaturin', jest 
as sure's you're a foot high. Of course, 
it ain't chalked up 'gainst him now 
'cause he's lived it down and he's 
respected in spite of that dark and 
dubious daub on his past. His neigh- 
bors keep his friendship fenced up, for 
it's valuable when they want to poke 
an I. O. U. at somebody for cash and 
need an endorser whose autograph 
has a "quick fetch" in financial circles. 
Cal's fist ain't purty, but it is highly 
respected amongst the banks. 

Since he busted into the literature 
trade he's shown some real ability, too. 

Any man that can start in with a 
spavined mule and a sack of potatoes 
and tickle a patch of Pine township 
soil until it laughs and hollers itself 
into a two hundred acre farm, with 
a red barn and a money-at-interest 
attachment, ain't goin' to be branded 
as a darned fool — and that's where 
Cal's stoppin' at this minute. He 
yanked himself out of a hole in the 
ground, plugged the hole and hiked 
up a tree, figuratively talkin'. His 
system was alwus to do the best he 
could, and when the best wasn't handy 
he tried his hand on people that didn't 
stand so well. He was original — 
even in his style of loafin'. When he 
was left to browse 'round loose, he 
could do nuthin' in more ways than 
anybody else on the Ridge. 

Cal sopped up the dickerin' habit 
from 'Squire Holback, who raised him. 
The 'Squire's specialty was tradin' 
horses and votes. 

A delicate taste for work was 
switched into Cal by Mrs. Holback, 
who was a fine cook, and supported 
the family by boardin' the school- 
marm in the winter, and fattenin' up 
a herd of city live stock in the summer 
when June bugs and skeeters get busy. 
She made Cal hump himself when she 
caught him round the house, and if 
he was bashful 'bout meetin' the 
wood pile, he heard a noise and was 
informed that he couldn't simply 
board for his clothes 'round her 

One summer a fellow with a leak, 
or lisp, in his talker, a little saucer 
cap, a tough lookin' pipe and a bale 
of paper fell off a wagon at the Holback 
place and oozed the information that 
he was an author and was goin' to 
put in a few weeks gettin' some local 

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color — whichever that was. Cal said 
afterwards that he loaded the cuss up 
with enough color of the local shades 
to paint a circus parade. 

That writin' chap wrote a tale 'bout 
everything on the farm. He com- 
muned with Cal, confidential-like, and 
said that the readin' public was beggin' 
and fightin' for cut feed of his mix, 
and that while he had 'em a-goin', 
and needed the money, he was fixin' 
to choke the market. The next winter 
he sent Cal some papers with his pre- 
pared food in, and Cal and the school- 
marm who was boardin' at the Hol- 
back's, laughed until they cracked 
the plaster on the wall readin' "Tales 
of a Bow-wow," with pictures of Cal's 
dog scattered through it, and "Muse 
of a Tabby," with the photograph 
and hand-write of Holback's yaller 
cat to draw the crow r d. 

That schoolmarm was a purty 
smooth article, by the way, and she 
was tickled with the yarns that chap 
had worked out of his system. She 
took considerable of Cal's wind and 
high feelin' away when she commenced 
wishin' she could know some folks 
with literary streaks in 'em, for she 
was hankerin' to commune with the 
great intellects of the age. Cal told 
her that it was all right to commune 
at long range over the magazine line, 
but that she'd have to use a disin- 
fectant on some of the sorry-lookin' 
idees she'd accumulate if she knew 
that particular literaturist as intimate- 
ly as he did. The fact is, the school- 
marm was cuttin' in on Cal's peace 
of mind, and with all his takin' her 
to meetin' and spellin' bees she was 
4 'way yonder" with him. 

Cal 'lowed that if that city lad could 
make a livin' at writin' such stuff, 
and twist up the feelin's of a gal like 
Susan Thomas, he would be the daddy 
of a tale that would singe the whiskers 
off of public opinion. There was 
nuthin' Gothic 'bout Cal's intellectual 
architecture — it leaned a bit toward 
the coal-shed style. He w r as jest 
like a lot of great writers — ain't. He 
had sense enough to know he couldn't 
spoil much paper writin' 'bout things 
he didn't know, so he pinned down 

to something he was on speakin' terms 

Cal owned in his own right, free 
from all encumbrances, a modest, un- 
assumin' hen named Nancy Ann. By 
a unique system involvin' courage, 
corn and cussin', he had trained Nance 
to dance a step or two and give a little 
sawed-off chunk of talk. To converse 
with her and steal her thinks and 
write them in a diary was the idee of 
John Calvin Higgins. He figured that 
as a hennist he was the whole coop, for 
who was better heeled to do the job 
than one who was kind of related? 
He was something of a cackler, and 
as for settin' — well, if he had had his 
way, no old cluck could have worsted 
him in a steady settin' match. 

So Cal wrote off the diary, and a 
run-down doctor that worked in a 
saw mill stuck in the stoppin' places 
and trimmed off the corners. By 
some trade The Chicken's Friend pub- 
lished it, and for two dollars the Clair- 
ville Hooter was glad to copy it as the 
effort of a local celebrity, and the en- 
tire county read the inmost thinks 
of Nancy Ann. 

Well, it was interestin' if nuthin' else. 
Cal took that hen from the hour she 
kicked a hole in her shell — from her 
earliest childhood — up through the 
gaps, whoopin' cough, teethin' and 
measles. The way she got mixed up 
on her mothers — the one by layin' and 
the one by hatchin' — was sad. Her 
trials and dangers resultin' from dodg- 
in' the weasels and cats, and later on, 
her ambitions and secret thoughts, 
w r ere touchin' and human enough to 
make a preacher swear off the chicken 
potpie habit. It was pitiful to read 
how in her youth she suffered the 
pangs of a big sorrow by givin' her 
heart to a flashy gent by the name of 
Shanghai, who put up a front and 
blowed 'bout his family, and in the 
end took up with anuther gal, became 
a Mormon, and wanted Nance to 
share his happy home with a bunch 
of scrub pullets that couldn't name 
their parents and came from under the 
barn in a doubtful and irregular way. 
Then came the greatest tear-starter. 
Her longin' and cravin' for the joys 

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i 9 4 


of motherhood got a knock in the head 
by a pop-eyed little cuss from Michi- 
gan, who sold the Holback outfit an 

Folks got to askin' Cal if his sad, 
soggy tale was the real thing or was 
he jest naturally lyin' 'bout what 
seemed to be a highly respected mem- 
ber of the weaker sex. In reply, Cal 
would trot out Nance, make a few 
passes with his hand, mumble a bit, 
and then the lady would cackle a few 
cacks, which accordin' to his rules for 
polite hen talk, put him solid in the 
G. Washington class. 

People talked a heap, and when 
the County Fair was ripe, Bud Owens 
persuaded Cal to exhibit the hen in a 
style befittin' her station. They got 
the diary printed in a little book size, 
borrowed a mildewed and frowsy 
tent, and proceeded to satisfy the 
curiosity of the public at so much per 

When a crowd of four or five would 
surge 'round the main entrance of 
their mammoth amphitheater, Bud 
would mount a barrel and cut loose a 
crop of peppery gab. Wavin' his plug 
hat in one hand and holdin' the book 
in the other, he would read: "A 
longin' sneaked into my heart of 
hearts! My future was hazy! Un- 
cultured and inexperienced in social 
ways, I felt that I was sure to get em- 
barrassed and lose my head before 
I succeeded in gettin' next to desirable 
people. Even then, though nestled 
close to their hearts, my breedin' and 
youthful tenderness would soon be 
forgotten. These cruel thoughts made 
me sad, and I wept several real moist 
weeps, off and on." 

Then Bud would scatter his ora- 
tory. ' ' There, ' ' — he hollered, € ' ladies 
and gentlemen, you have a few choice 
lines from the only history of a hen 
ever wrote up. Think of it! A 
talkin' hen ! For forty thousand years 
hens have been pinin' 'way with 
busted hearts — their thinks not ad- 
vertised ! 'Cause why ? No one could 
understand their talk. Philosophers 
couldn't deliver the goods. It re- 
mained for a genius of this county 
to get onto the whisperin' of this femi- 

nine soul and put the joys and sorrows 
of Nancy Ann betwixt the two lids 
of this book from which I have just 
read in your presence, and which, by 
a special arrangement with the pub- 
lishers, the Dansard Oil Company, 
the Feather Bed Trust and the Bullion- 
bears Club of New York, I am offerin' 
to you, this day only, at the unmen- 
tionable price of five cents! But, I 
say, how can you appreciate it unless 
you behold in life, blood, feathers and 
all, the wonderful lady herself and 
her marvelous historian? Now, before 
we go abroad to fill a long engagement 
at the Bastile in London and the 
Coloseum in Paris, we exhibit to you 
the matchless miracle of the age for 
the insignificant sum of ten cents. 
The show is now on and the price is 
ten cents! Pass right in! Don't 
crowd! Price is ten cents!" 

Then Sol Tubbs' boy thumped a 
big drum, and Bud stuck to his holler 
and played variations on the barrel 
with a club. Inside the tent, Cal 
walked from behind a curtain with 
Nance in his arms, and made a bow 
that looked like he was dodgin' a brick. 
A few words from Cal, a little hop and 
a long cackle from the hen, and the 
show was over. 

When a gang of logmen from Chest 
Creek called the demonstration a fake 
and a swindle and proceeded to smash 
down the tent and chase Bud and Cal 
through the fair grounds, over the 
fence and into the woods, they were 
'bout four hundred dollars to the good. 

A few days afterwards, a sporty- 
lookin' gent drove up to the Holback 
place and asked Cal if he was willin' 
to be divorced from Nance for a cash 
consideration. This base tempter had 
witnessed the hen's accomplishments 
while he was runnin' an Oriental Dance 
show at the fair, and he was goin' to 
turn his crowd of Turkish princesses 
from Georgia into an Uncle Tom's 
Cabin troupe durin' the winter and 
wanted to use the bird in a plantation 
scene. Fifty dollars was the amount of 
salve Cal wanted. Although the ama- 
teur sultan wore 'bout four pounds 
of diamonds, he confessed that he 
hadn't seen that much money for a 

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long time, and felt hurt that Cal 
wanted to rob a brother professional. 
So there was nuthin' doin' that day. 

The next mornin' Nancy Ann was 
missin\ Cal walked out the road 
to lament and ease his feelin's. A 
young lawyer from Clairville, rigged 
out in old clothes and nursin' an 
ancient muzzle-loader gun, drove up 
and stopped. The legal spark was a 
candidate for the legislature and was 
tryin' to make himself solid with the 
country voters by leavin' his finery 
at home and pretendin' to hunt a 
little game in the classical Ridge style. 

After a bit of talk, Cal asked: 
" Any luck ?" 

1 ' Yes, indeed. I killed a nice pheas- 
ant a moment ago/' said the meek 

"What?" said Cal, all excited. 
"Killed a pheasant out of season! 
Gosh, man, I can have you jerked ; but 
I ain't savin* nuthin' — jest now." 

The lawyer plead like he was afraid of 
hangin'. Said that he never thought 
of the season and didn't mean to 
shoot anything, but jest wanted to put 
up a bluff for effect. It was early in 
the 'lectioneerin' game and he hadn't 
blown all his money, so he stuck a 
ten-spot at Cal with a wink that 
meant mum all 'round. 

"Thank you," said Cal, with a dry 
voice, "and was it a big one?" 

"Look for yourself. Here it is 
under the buggy seat; allow me to 
present it to you," was the answer 
handed Cal, and out came — Nancy 

"By the ghost of Long Barney," 
hollered Cal, "that's the greatest hen 
on earth ! Roll out here on the ground 
till I bust you into forty-seven hunks. 
That bird was worth fifty dollars yes- 
terday, and that's what you've got 
to shell out and shell quick or I'll take 
that much fun out of your hide !" 

"I'm mighty sorry," squeaked the 
chap, "but I can't pay a price like that. 
Besides, I thought she was a pheasant 
and paid you for her." 

"Not on your chromo! You paid 
me for a pheasant you said you killed. 
I want fifty dollars for a hen I know 
you assassinated. Why, man, if I 

say the word, your political goose 
is cooked forever. Do you s'pose 
the Ridge folks are goin' to have their 
laws made by a fool that can't tell a 
pheasant from a speckled hen? You 
insult the intelligence of the great 
American people! Cough up fifty, 
or you'll put in all your days studyin' 
the bird book." Cal got the fifty. 

That evenin', when Cal was con- 
solin' himself by countin' over the 
nice crisp bills, the Oriental Dance 
man drove into the barn yard with 
a rush. 

"Say," says he, as his feet hit the 
ground, "I want that hen. I've four 
miles to drive and my train leaves in 
twenty minutes." 

"Too late, I reckon," says Cal, 
carelessly. "This mornin' I asked a 
man fifty for her and — " 

"Did he take her?" 

"No, he didn't take her— that is, 
she's out back of the barn somewhere. 
That great hen wandered out into the 
woods and — " 

"Couldn't find her for him, eh?" 
broke in the Barnum. "Well, I'll 
hunt for her. Say, there she is comin' 
'round the corner of the barn now. 
Here's the fifty ! Grab her, grab her ! " 

In a jiffy the designated chick was 
in the arms of the smart geezer and 
he was crawlin' into his buggy, all 
the time sayin', "I would know this 
hen anywhere. Why, man, she is a 
marvel! Wait till you see her on a 
three-sheet poster. She'll be a head- 
liner for the greatest Uncle Tom show 
in the world." 

"This cash goes for that hen?" Cal 
asked, in a hint sort of tone. 

1 ' Sure thing ! Ain't you satisfied ? ' ' 

"Yes," murmurs Cal. "Now, what 
this hen needs is — " But he was 
sawed off with: 

"Haven't time to talk. I know 
how to feed her. Now, watch me do 
a hoss race for that train. So long!" 
Down the road went the Tom outfit. 

Cal stood and looked at the cloud 
of dust for a spell and then remarked : 

1 ' I'll be chawed up ! Couldn't drive 
a word in anywhere, could I? This 
wad of stuff for that hen, and he has 
the hen — that's fair and square, 

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Nuther case of trouble with twins — 
that sister of Nancy Ann's fooled me 
lots of times — blamed near." 

When a letter came from New York 
sayin' that the hen seemed to have 
lost her talents, Cal telegraphed back 
on a postal card : 

"No, she ain't, 'cause she never had any 
what you could notice. She'll talk all right 
when she's taught — it runs in her family. 
I couldn't cheep when I wanted to and now 
I'm not wan tin' to say a darned word, an' 
you do the same, or folks will give you the 
merry ha — ha!" 

All that Cal ever said 'bout the 
hen doin's was: 

"Literaturin' — straight book writin' 
— will set the people to cacklin' all 
right if the idee is hit smack on the 
nose ; but the spondulix comes in bales 
from workin' the side lines. I might 
have sold a million copies of the 
'Diary* if I had printed a few pictures 
of myself holdin' a pen or readin' 
a book, and then scattered an assort- 
ment of tales 'bout my eccentricities 
in eatin', talkin' and wearin' my duds. 
Then, I might have boosted the price 

of poultry in these parts clean out 
of sight. Yes, indeedy, if these writin' 
chaps want to eat pie, they must 
remember that it is on the side 
lines they've got to do their husky 

With his three hundred dollars Cal 
bought that Gosser land from the 
sheriff, and got a mule thrown in. 
Then he got busy. Literaturin' was 
too brash for him. 

In a year or two he talked that 
schoolmarm into thinkin' that any- 
body that could get next to a feminine 
heart and squint into the soul of any 
female was the sort of an expert she 
was hankerin' for; and the man that 
was able to hold his own and a good 
chunk of the other fellow's in a dicker 
was jest her sort of a man. 

This is .why I said at the beginnin' 
that I'd win money if anybody bet 
on appearance and ag'in Cal's gettin' 
a start in life by tacklin' literature. 
He ain't worked at it since, but by 
the way he's gatherin' moss I reckon 
the last chapter of "The Diary of a 
Talkin' Hen" ain't finished yet. 



Coquette! your heart is a "yellow rose" — 
Whose leaves your lovers pluck one by one, 

Until but the thorns remain, and those 

Are left for your husband to touch, or shun. 


There are many loves that fill man's heart 

And make existence sunny; 
But time sees all save one depart — 

And that's the love of money. 


" I can read my lover just like a book!" 

Declared fair Winifred Hall. 
"Why, what a feat!" exclaimed her friend, 

"To master type so small!" 

Walter Pulitzer. 

Digitized by 



By Susie Gentry 

"What great results from trivial causes 

It is hard to believe that a good 
dinner was the primal cause of the 
establishing of our permanent seat 
of government at Washington, D. C, 
but such is the fact. 

When Ethan Allen demanded the 
surrender of Fort Ticonderoga in the 
name of God and the Continental 
Congress he stood as a representative 
of the great moral and political power 
which has done much in molding 
the destinies of mankind and coun- 

The just desire of the colonies for a 
free government in America led to the 
assembling of a representative body 
of men known as the "Continental 
Congress.' ' 

It held its first session in Phila- 
delphia on September the fifth, 1774. 
On May the tenth, the following year, 
another session was held at the same 

This attempt to be true and free 
Americans, and have "America for 
Americans," created such bitter feel- 
ings and controversies both at home 
and abroad, that Congress was obliged 
to hold its sessions at those places 
where the least disturbance would be 

The third session was held in Balti- 
more, December 20, 1776. March 4, 
1777, we find it meeting in Phila- 
delphia again; and on September 27, 
1777, its members are to be found at 
Lancaster, Pennsylvania, and three 
days later at York, Pennsylvania. 

The next meeting was at Philadel- 
phia, July 2, 1778, where all sessions 
were held until 1783, when Congress 
was driven out of its halls by a mob, 
the civil authorities being unable or 
unwilling to control. On June 30, 

1783, the city of Princeton, New Jer- 
sey, had the honor of giving its mem- 
bers an asylum. 

November 26, 1783, Congress met 
at Annapolis, Maryland. During this 
session, on December 23, General 
Washington resigned his commission, 
as the Revolutionary War had been 
terminated by the surrender of Corn- 
wallis at Yorktown, October 19, 1781. 

Congress next met at Trenton, New 
Jersey, November 1, 1784, and ad- 
journed to meet in New York City on 
January 11, 1785. 

Here the sessions were held until the 
adoption of the Constitution, in 1788. 
Here was held, also, the first Federal 
Congress, under the provisions of the 
Constitution, and the electoral votes 
were canvassed for the first President 
of the United States of America. 

The inauguration ceremonies took 
place on the balcony of Federal Hall, 
on the corner of Nassau and Wall 
streets, I April 30, 1789 — a bronze 
statue of heroic size marks the spot 
upon the steps of the sub-treasury 

The Government of the United 
States was now provided with a Con- 
stitution, a Federal Congress and a 
President, but had no permanent 
abiding place. 

New York was determined to be the 
capital city. Philadelphia wa s equally 
anxious to provide a home for Con- 
gress, which, six years before her 
authorities had suffered to be dis- 
gracefully driven out by the violence 
of a Tory mob. 

Delaware, New Jersey, Maryland 
and Virginia all presented their patri- 
otic testimonials and claimed title to 
the honor of founding a capital city 
for the new and lusty infant nation. 

The New England States were 
satisfied with their efforts in procur- 

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ing liberty — which was with them the 
one question. The extreme Southern 
States, supported by Maryland and 
Virginia, would consent to no location 
which was as far north as Philadelphia. 
The Carolinas did not like Philadel- 
phia either. New Jersey and Dela- 
ware were not slow in presenting their 
merited claims. 

On September 22, 1789, by a vote 
of thirty-one to seventeen, the House 
passed a Bill fixing the locus for a 
permanent capital on the banks of 
the Susquehanna. James Madison 
was violent in his opposition to this 
site, and undoubtedly he had the sup- 
port of the President. The Senate, 
however, passed an amendment, sub- 
stituting the Delaware River for the 

When the Bill was returned to the 
House, it again received the opposition 
of Mr. Madison, who succeeded in 
getting it postponed until another 
session. The burning questions before 
the next Congress — 1780 — were : Alex- 
ander Hamilton's proposal that Con- 
gress assume the payment of the State 
debts and the Bill for fixing a perma- 
nent location for the United States 
Capital. The members were nearly 
equally divided, and the partisan 
spirit became so intense and hot that 
many feared a secession movement 
might be more disastrous to the newly- 
formed Union than war with England. 

Thomas Jefferson, who had but 

recently returned from France, was 
appointed Secretary of State, and he 
was requested to lend his influence in 
composing, or quieting the difficulty. 
This great statesman knew the sooth- 
ing, almost sedative effects of a good 
dinner on the nerves of strenuous 
politicians, and he invited Alexander 
Hamilton as his guest on this notable 

The Southern States were firm in 
their opposition to Hamilton's finan- 
cial scheme, and could count a majority 
of two against it. The result of the 
dinner was a conversion of Lee and 
White of Virginia to the proposal 
of Hamilton and, on the other hand, 
Hamilton of New York and Robert 
Morris of Pennsylvania agreed to lend 
their aid in fixing the new capital on 
the banks of the Potomac. These pre- 
liminaries being arranged, Pierce Butler 
of South Carolina was selected as the 
proper person to introduce "a Bill 
to determine the permanent seat of 
Government of the United States." 

The Bill passed by two votes. Re- 
peated efforts were made to change 
the site, but on July 9, 1790, the 
Senate Bill passed the House by a 
vote of thirty-two to twenty-nine, and 
was approved July 16, 1790. After a 
hard-fought fight of ten years and six- 
teen days, the bargain made at Thomas 
Jefferson's good dinner ceased to be 
a bone of contention between the 
North and the South. 


My beautiful jonquils, so golden, 

What joy ye have cast o'er my way! 
I have longed for your beauty and fragrance 

For many and many a day ; 
Yet little I dreamed there were growing 

So many bright flowers for me, 

And I thank the kind hand, thus bestowing 
This act full of kindness. I see 

Such beauty in sweet flowers always, * 

E'en when their brightness may shine 
O'er the heart of another, but sweeter 

Are ye, jonquils mine — all mine. 

Evangel Harrel. 

Digitized by 



By Horace Hendrick 

TO Margaret Henderson, as she 
gazed out of the carriage 
that had just stopped 
before the big iron gate, the 
old red brick house, standing under 
the great spreading branches of the 
elm trees, had never seemed so 
beautiful, so homelike and restful. 
She could hardly realize that it was 
ten years since she had last seen her 
old home. How many changes had 
taken place in her life in those ten 
years! How many dear ones had 
"gone home!" And how changed 
it would all be to her! 

Her father had fallen on the field 
of Shiloh, and she scarcely remem- 
bered him; but her mother, a frail, 
delicate little woman, with the courage 
and ability which has characterized 
so many Southern women, who after 
the war was over found themselves 
dependent upon their own resources, 
had carefully managed the property 
and had lived on in the old fami- 
ly homestead until Frank and Mar- 
garet were old enough to relieve her 
of her cares. Then had come Mar- 
garet's marriage to John Hender- 
son and settling in his Northern 
home. Before a year had gone by 
her mother had suddenly passed over 
the shining river, and this being 
followed by several other deaths among 
her kinspeople, Margaret had, from 
time to time, postponed a visit to the 
dear old home which would awaken 
so many sad memories. Frank con- 
tinued to live on the old place, his 
mother's "Cousin Sophie" keeping 
house for him, assisted by the old 
servants who had remained on the 

They were not a very satisfactory 
lot, and Frank Buford was often tempt- 

ed to "clean out the crowd," as he 
expressed it, and only refrained from 
doing so on Mammy Harriet's account. 
Mammy Harriet was past eighty years 
old, and had nursed Mrs. Buford when 
she was a baby, and each succeeding 
Buford baby since. She had belonged 
to Mrs. Biiford's father, old General 
Jackson, and had been given to the 
daughter on her wedding day. She 
took as much pride in the family" as 
any member of it, and woe to any one 
who dared to criticise any of the family 
in her presence. Like many of the 
old-time darkies she lived much in the 
past and loved to talk of "dem good 
ole times w'en ole Marster wuz 

It was Mammy Harriet's arms that 
first held the "little Missy," and her 
voice, crooning the quaint negro 
lullabies, had first soothed her to 
sleep. It was on her faithful breast 
Mrs. Buford had sobbed out her 
heart's anguish that dreadful day 
when the news from Shiloh had 
come, and her faithful black hands 
had closed the tired eyes at the 
last. Search where you may, you 
will never find records of more 
tender devotion, more unflinching 
constancy, or truer heroism than 
was found in these old family servants 
in the South. If Mammy Harriet had 
loved her mistress, she had simply 
idolized Margaret; "my baby," as she 
called her. When John Henderson's 
business called him to the South, and 
he found he would probably be de- 
tained there several weeks, he urged 
Margaret to go, too, and so she was 
now coming home for Christmas. 
Her brother and Miss Sophia were 
very happy over the promised visit 
and had been making all sorts of 

Digitized by 




preparations for her coming. Such 
good things as the pantry and store- 
room contained! and such mysterious 
packages as they both slipped in and 
hid away from each other! The old 
house was all alight, and the long- 
deserted rooms were cheerful with 
holly and mistletoe. The great fire- 
place in the old parlor was piled high 
with hickory logs, and the big brass 
andirons sparkled and smiled as the 
blazing logs crackled and sputtered; 
and the dancing, twisting flames 
leaped joyously up the deep-throated 
chimney as though they, too, under- 

Mammy Harriet was the gladdest 
of all. Her old heart thumped so 
under the checked shawl she had 
pinned around her shoulders that she 
thought "it sho'ly would choke her." 
She had claimed the privilege of M tend- 
in' to little Missy's room," and the 
dainty, white bed she had seen well 
aired, the sheets and pillow-cases 
she had taken from the old cedar-lined 
closets; the sheer muslin curtains at 
the windows, she had "done up widher 
own han's," and they were as spotless 
as the fast falling snowflakes outside. 
On the little table by the bed she had 
placed the brass candlestick she re- 
membered Mrs. Buford's using each 
night for so many years. She walked 
over now to the washstand to see if the 
towels were in their place, and then 
took from the pocket of her shabby 
old dress a little package wrapped in 
newspaper and tied very securely, 
with many windings of string. This 
she carefully unwrapped, disclosing 
inside another wrapping of pink tissue 
paper; when she had removed this, 
she raised the object in her hand to her 
face and smelled it, heaving a big sigh 
of satisfaction, her dear old black 
face wearing a supremely happy ex- 
pression. It Was a small cake of 
perfumed toilet soap, given her long 
ago by Mrs. Buford, and she had 
kept it among her treasures in her 
little chest of drawers in her cabin. 
It was too precious to use, so she 
had contented herself with taking 
it out occasionally and smelling it, 
and then carefully wrapping it up 

again. But nothing in Mammy Har- 
riet's eyes was too good for Margaret, 
so she had brought her treasure, and 
as she laid it in the soapdish said: 
"I hopes she gwin'ter lak dat soap; 
it sho'ly do smell lak it orter please 
'er; what's an ole nigger lak me want 
wid it? I'se jes' bin keepin' it fer 
'er, an' I spec she gwin'ter be mighty 
proud w'en she sees it." 

Just then a sharp ring of the door 
bell sounded through the house and 
caused Mammy Harriet to start. 
"Dar she is now ! I feels it in my ole 
bones!" she exclaimed, as she hurried 
as fast as she could, her hand on her 
side "whar de miz'ry took her de 
wuss," down the broad, old stairway 
to the hall below. When she had 
reached the bottom step she was so 
out of breath she sank down on the 
floor. She saw "Marse Frank" open 
wide the great hall door and the face 
she had longed and waited to see 

Margaret greeted her brother and 
Miss Sophia warmly, and her glad 
eyes seemed to drink in the dear, 
familiar objects all around her, while 
John Henderson looked on with face 
alight with love and pride in the little 
woman who was the center of it all. 
Now disengaging herself from the 
welcoming arms of her loved ones, 
Margaret looked around anxiously 
and asked: "But where is Mammy 
Harriet? I thought she would be the 
first to meet me; surely nothing 
has happened to her!" She did 
not see the feeble old figure huddled 
there by the foot of the stairway, 
but a trembling voice reached her 
ears from the half shadows of the 
hallway. "Heah I is, honey; heah 
me; I'se comin' !" and the old woman, 
holding to the rail, slowly tried to rise. 
Margaret flew to her, and gathering 
the form of her old black Mammy to 
her heart tenderly kissed the shrunken 
cheeks, tears filling her own gray eyes 
as she saw how feeble the old woman 
had grown and how dim the old eyes 

Memory works with lightning fingers 
at times, and now Margaret's past 
flashed before her eyes. She was a 

Digitized by 



20 1 

child, a girl, a young woman, the old 
life was before her, and in every scene 
the form, the face, the voice of Mammy 
Harriet was present. Putting her 
strong, young arms around the old 
woman's shoulders she led her into 
the cheerful old parlor. 

Mammy Harriet had not spoken a 
word. She could only look, half- 
blinded by happy tears, and, as 
Margaret led her to an armchair before 
the fire, and gently pushed her in it, 
she tried to rise, but Margaret re- 
strained her and said: "No, you are 
going to sit right here by me and tell 
me all about yourself. Brother and 
Cousin Sophia will just have to wait ! 
But I don't believe you are glad to 
see me at all! You haven't said a 

Slowly the old woman put out one 
trembling hand and softly touched 
the white fingers that rested upon the 
arm of her chair, as she looked with 
eyes all aglow with tenderness in the 
face of her young mistress. 

"It do seem lak I done los' all de 
sense I evah had; heah I'se bin 
a-watchin' fer yer, an' it seemed lak 
meh ole haht wud bre'k wid de longin' 
fer a sight of meh baby's face ag'in; 
an' now yer done come, I des nacherly 
lose mehse'f and meh haht it mek 
me dumb; but yer knows, meh pre- 
cious chile, ole Mammy's glad ter see 
yer, gladder en she kin tell. I tole 
the good Lord ef he 'ud only spar' me 
till arter I'd seed you once mo' and 
guv yer de word yer ma tole me to 
guv yer, I'd be radey to go. I ain' 
got long ter stay nohow, an' I knows 
I is mos' wo' out, but, honey, yer 
nebber had no one to lub yer, 'cep'n' 
'twus yer ma, lak old black Mammy 
Harriet." Her voice broke and her 
eyes were full of happy tears. Then, 
rising from her chair,* she added: 
4 'Whut a fool I is ! a-settin' here talkin' 
dis here doleful way, an you jes' cum 
home and it Chris'mus time, too ! I 
better be goin' out dar in dat dinin' 
room ; ef I don' dem fool niggers won' 
get dat supper radey dis week! An' 
you all 'bout starved, I reckon." 

Miss Sophia signalled to Margaret 
by a look to make no objections, and 

she only said: "You don't know, 
Mammy, how hungry I am for some 
of your good cooking; our city cooks 
can't begin to cook like you, so hurry 
up supper." 

Miss Sophia still managed to retain 
much of the flavor of old times in the 
Buford home. A couple of the bet- 
ter of the servants still remained in 
the house, and when not down with the 
"miz'ry in her back" Mammy Harriet 
still exercised nominal sway over the 
kitchen, and she loved to feel she was 
of some account yet, Sarah and Tom 
both humoring her. She had been 
a famous cook, and her dishes had been 
known for miles around. Her old 
face fairly beamed now as she stood 
behind the chair she had drawn back 
for Margaret. The thin slices of de- 
licious boiled ham, baked potatoes, 
a great dish of fried chicken, prepared 
as only a Southern darky can fry it, 
waffles done to a golden brown, that 
seemed to melt in the mouth, sweet 
country butter in which you could 
almost smell the white clover blos- 
soms, strawberry preserves, and rich, 
fragrant coffee and cream made a 
supper generous yet dainty. 

As soon as all were seated Mammy 
Harriet left the room, returning with 
a plate of biscuits. "Ileah, honey," 
she said, "I know you'se gwinter lak 
dese beaten biskits; I made 'em 
myse'f, and I hopes dey'll tas'e good 
ter yer." She remembered how fond 
Margaret had always been of her 
famous beaten biscuits, and she was 
very proud of her success, watching 
with shining eyes and face the disap- 
pearance -of replenished platefuls. 

"No, Mammy, I positively can't eat 
another one," said Margaret at last. 
"I am afraid I shall be sick now. I 
don't know when I have eaten so 
heartily, and you will be responsible 
for it if I am sick, you know." 

"Go way, chile! dem biskits ain' 
gwineter hurt yer; didn' I mek 'em 
myse'f? I'se seen Marse Frank dar 
eat fo'teen an jiuver turn a ha'r." 

A laugh followed this sally of Mam- 
my Harriet's. As they rose from the 
table Margaret paused, and laying her 
hand on the old woman's shoulder, 

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said: "I know you are just tired out. 
Now be good and eat your supper and 
go right to bed. You have to get 
up early to-morrow morning, remem- 
ber, to catch my 'Christmas gift.' 
I will come down and see you after 
a little while and bid you good-night, 
and you can give me your stocking to 
hang up, for old Santa Claus is going 
to look for it the very first thing when 
he comes to-night." 

And so, with much muttering and 
shaking of the head, Mammy Harriet 
was finally induced to go to her 
cabin. Margaret called Sarah and 
told her to keep her eye on the 
old woman and see that she got to 
bed safely, and then went into the 
parlor to join the others. 

"Cousin Sophia," said she "Mammy 
Harriet is very feeble, and only the 
excitement is keeping her up to-night. 
Tell me about her. You know what 
she has been to Mama all her life, 
and how faithful she has always been 
to me. Is there anything I can do 
for her?" 

"My dear child/' said Miss Sophia, 
"Harriet is failing very fast. You 
must remember she is eighty-four, an 
old, old woman. She has not been 
at all like her old self since she had 
a bad spell some two years since. 
Her mind at times seems to wander 
and for days she is unable to leave 
her room. When she heard you were 
coming home, she brightened up and 
has been like a different person. The 
way she has counted the days and 
watched and planned for you has been 
really pathetic. Excitement, as you 
say, has kept her up, and I very much 
fear the reaction will be too much for 
her. She has taken such interest and 
pride in fixing your room for you, dear, 
and you must be sure to speak to her 
about it and to tell her how sweet 
and nice everything is." 

"Oh, I will, I will!" cried Margaret. 
"I ought to have let her go up with 
me to my room. It would have pleased 
her so; but she looked so tired I sent 
her off to bed. Poor old Mammy 
Harriet," she continued; "no one has 
ever given much thought to your 
wishes and heart longings! It has 

all been take, take, take, with us, and 
give, give, give with you." 

She started suddenly from her seat 
by the chimney-side. "I am going 
down now and see how she is and tell 
her good-night. I told her I would 
come." So saying, Margaret threw 
a scarf over her head and ran along 
the back gallery, down the steps, to 
the little cabin room where she so 
well knew she would find her old 

She softly opened the door and 
entered. All was very quiet ; a warm 
fire burned in the old fireplace, and 
the room was oppressively hot. The 
little split rocking chair was before 
the fire as she had so often seen it in 
the old days. The old clock ticked 
away on the mantel shelf, and as 
Margaret softly crossed the room she 
noticed the old woman's clothing 
neatly folded and hung across the 
foot of the bed. The lamp was binn- 
ing low on the little table by the head 
of the bed, and her old silver-rimmed 
spectacles and a ball of gray yarn and 
knitting-needles in a half -knitted sock 
lay beside them ; a long, black stock- 
ing lay across one corner of the table. 
Margaret hesitated a moment. "Is 
she asleep?" she asked herself; if so, 
she would not awaken her, but would 
just take the stocking quietly and go. 
Sarah would be out presently, she 
thought, and see that the fire was 
covered up and all was safe for the 
night. Yes, Sarah was very careful, 
and was devoted to Mammy Harriet, 
and Margaret felt she could trust her. 
She leaned over and looked into the 
old face and whispered: "Good night, 
dear old friend. May to-morrow be 
a very happy day for you." She 
started, and leaned closer; something 
about that still form caused her to 
tremble; she touched the wrinkled 
hands lying so quietly across the coarse 
night-dress. They were cold and un- 
responsive. A faint smile was on the 
old face, and the dim eyes were half 
opened, but Margaret knew the light 
had gone out of them forever — she 
would never hear the sound of that 
tender voice again. It was Mammy 
Harriet's last Christmas Eve. 

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She threw herself down there in the 
poor little cabin, with her arms 
across the silent form on the bed, and 
was not ashamed of the hot tears that 
filled her eyes. And as she crouched 
there she saw a vision. Her own 
precious mother was before her gaze, 
only it seemed she was younger and 
fairer than when last she saw her, 
and lilies were blooming all about her. 

Many other forms were there, too, 
some she knew, and some she could 
not place, who seemed strangely 
familiar. And now another form 
seemed coming nearer and nearer, and 
her mother turned with a glad cry of 
welcome, as a voice she remembered 
so well fell on her ears. "Chrismus 
giff, Miss Martha! Chrismus giff!" 
Mammy Harriet was home at last. 


Oh ! for a day ctf the old, old days 

By the lapping, lazy stream, 
Where the fallen beech made a royal 
Where life was one long, sweet dream. 
- Of joy and spring the bluebird sang 
From the budding apple tree; 
The mourning dove cooed to his love, 
And the robin sang his glee. 

What joy to list to the old mill wheel 

So merrily keeping time; 
Its croon as soft as a tale twice told, 

In the waters' lulling rhyme. 
Oh, to skip a stone to the sedgy marge 

When a loon made covert there; 
It was like the breath of an eerie 

His wild flight through the air. 
How the water roared as it foaming 

In a mimic, mystic fall. 
"Nor haste, nor rest !" it seemed to cry 

To the crooning wheel's low call. 

Give back, O Fate, one day like those 

From care, from sorrow free. 
Days of joy in the sky, the earth, 

Under the spreading tree. 
Let me go back to the dear old farm ; 

Perhaps the moss-clad wheel 
May lull me to sleep with its whirring 

To wake at the noon-bells' peal. 
Let me once more see the dazzling falls, 

Once more be free from doubt, 
And dream the old dreams on my 
beechen couch, 

Before my life runs out. 

E. Lockert Doak. 

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By Edwin Carlile Litsey 

I SUPPOSE almost every one who 
reads is familiar with Mr. James 
Lane Allen's superior short ro- 
mance. I suppose, also, that 
the many who have been stirred by 
its wonderful pathos and indefinable 
charm have thought vaguely of the 
theater of this tragedy, and how it 
would appear to the eye (for I presume 
none need be told that the setting in 
which Mr. Allen placed his remarkable 
work did, and does to-day, exist). 

It has been nearly a century since 
the Abbey of Gethsemani was founded. 
It is an offshoot from the parent stem, 
which is located at Melleray, on the 
Lower Loire, France. The father 
house became crowded, and a small 
band of volunteers made a perilous 
passage to New Orleans, thence up 
the Mississippi and Ohio rivers to the 
present site of the city of Louisville, 
Kentucky. Ox-wagons brought them 

to their ultimate destination, where 
the present Abbey stands. 

The writer resides within an hour's 
ride by rail of the monastery; he has 
visited it often, and the singular and 
quieting charm which the place pos- 
sesses never palls. The traveler 
alights at a small station, and a pleas- 
ant walk of a mile and a half over a 
country dirt road brings him to his 
destination. The Abbey rests (rests 
is the proper word) in a secluded hollow 
in the Kentucky hills. The first 
object which draws the eye is a tall 
white, tapering, cross-crowned spire 
which lifts its head high above the 
trees below. The road goes down 
a hill, makes an abrupt curve, and 
presently one stands in awe before 
the pathetic wreck of one of the most 
beautiful avenues in the world. In 
past years this avenue, formed of giant 
English elms planted in double rows, 

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was the pride of the brotherhood (if 
it can be justly said that they take 
a pride in things earthly) and the 
wonder of visitors. Then a certain 
parasite, so small as to be almost in- 
visible to the naked eye, made its 
appearance in Kentucky in countless 
numbers, and fed exclusively upon 
the leaves of this tree. Human in- 
genuity was powerless to combat 
them, and the Abbey's elms went 

The first is practically a flower garden, 
with a shrine in the center containing 
a statue of the Holy Virgin. Shrubs 
and plots of flowers are in evidence, 
with two long hothouses on one side 
for the preservation of the delicate 
plants in winter. No woman's foot 
is allowed to press the soil beyond the 
porter's lodge — no woman but .the 
wife of the President of the United 
States and the wife of the Governor 


gaunt, bare limbs which summer has 
no power to clothe again, the porter's 
lodge is reached, and a brown-cowled 
figure admits the visitor with a 
muttered "Deo Gratial" or "Bene- 
dicite/" The caller's wants are ascer- 
tained. If he comes on business, an 
audience with the Superior is speedily 
secured. If he comes as a guest, he 
is conducted to a pleasant room in 
the main body of the building, and 
his every want is courteously supplied. 
The Abbey is built in the form of 
a large square, enclosing two courts. 

tral court is a vineyard — and the sow- 
wine stored in the Abbey's cellars 
has a well-deserved reputation! The 
building has three stories, and is made 
of brick. The rooms, halls, corridors 
and cloisters are spacious and bare. 
On the ground floor are the chapel, 
the refectory, the chapter room (where 
the mea culpa, or public confession 
of sins takes place every morning) 
and the rooms of the Abbot, Prior 
and Sub-Prior, as well as rooms for 
postulants seeking admission into the 
order. Above are the library, dormi- 

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tory, storerooms and guest-chambers. 
The Abbey is self-supporting, its acres 
yielding abundantly of the fruits of 
the soil every season. 

The life of a Trappist monk is one 
of extreme rigor, and often of suffer- 
ing. His vow is silence, obedience, 
poverty and self-denial. Meat never 

How can we of the world wonder 
that when young Father Palemon 
out of the charity which his order 
taught, raised the senseless form of 
a beautiful woman in his cassocked 
arms and bore her to the college on 
the hill which is conducted by the 
monks — how can we wonder that his 


passes his lips. His fare consists of 
lentils, water and coarse bread, with 
cheese sometimes. On especial days 
he is allowed a little wine, or cider. 
He retires to his comfortless couch 
at eight in the evening, arises at one 
in the morning to begin prayer, which 
lasts intermittently in the great Gothic 
chapel till daybreak. A light break- 
fast, reading or working, then to 
prayer again. 

old life suddenly became irksome, 
and lifeless, and dull! 
QEven the casual reader must re- 
member the incident. The quick sum- 
mer storm gathering over the valley; 
the thoughtful face of the young monk 
watching its progress from a window 
of the building on the. hill, where he 
had been teaching that day. The 
runaway horse with a female rider; 
its disappearance behind an embank- 

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ment; its reappearance with woman 
and saddle gone, caused by a broken 
girth. The spot where the accident 
occurred is admirably fitted for this 
event. The road runs along the base 
of the hill upon which the college 
stands, then diverges, one angle of 
it flanking the Abbey. Here, too, 
is a hill, and at its foot the never- 

story, and it was upon this stony 
ground that Father Palemon first 
looked upon beautiful, unconscious 

There is too much of interest con- 
nected with Gethsemani Abbey for 
me to dwell upon the various points 
in this paper. 

The monastery is a Mecca for pil- 


failing water of a cool spring emerges 
from the earth, overflows the road, 
which is here of a slaty formation, 
and *joins a small creek in the little 
valley beyond. The constant, leisure- 
ly passage of the water over the slate- 
rode has covered it with a sort of 
green slime, extremely treacherous 
to an iron-shod hoof. It was here the 
horse slipped and fell in Mr. Alley's ' 

grims from all over the world, ir- 
respective of religion or creed. The 
form of religion practiced here is, 
of course, the Roman Catholic, but 
they make no distinctions in their 
favors to the strangers within their 
gates. Some come to see, some to 
rest, some to pray, and some to cast 
their lot with this silent band of 
cowled brothers. The dust of 3 French 

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"/*r\T\'o iratf" 


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nobleman reposes in a crypt in the 
rear of the chapel, and adjoining this 
is the private cemetery of the order, 
known as "God's Acre." Strange to 
relate, one woman is buried with the 
Abbey's dead. She was a benefactor 
of the order in time of dire need, and 
she named as a recompense a grave 
in "God's Acre," which was given her. 
When a brother dies, his uncoffined 
body is wrapped in the cassock he 
wore during life, and he is consigned 
to the earth. 

If the reader would know more of 
this interesting place, which furnished 
inspiration for that, in many respects, 
wonderful bit of literature, "The 
White Cowl," he has but to pull the 
bell-cord which hangs outside the 
closed gates of the porter's lodge, and 

rsay that he has come as a guest. He 
will receive a cordial, though a sub- 
dued and almost silent welcome. He 
will hear the sonorous Latin chant in 
the still night hours of some eighty 
men's voices, a thing in itself inspiring 
and awesome. At intervals the pure 
notes of a silver-toned bell will make 
the silence sweet. He will see hand- 
made books of great age and size, the 
text beautifully traced by hand in 
various colored inks, and some of 
them representing the life work of a 
gentle and zealous brother. He will 
see and hear many things, all be- 
speaking a life of abnegation, prayer, 
and self-denial. If he be of a reflective 
temperament, he will come forth into 
the world strangely at peace with 
his soul. 


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By Gilson Willets 

ERY soon after his 
I arrival in the South 
I a New Yorker begins 
to understand the sig- 
nificance of the 
j p h r a s e — "N e w 
South." He com- 
prehends that he is 
I in an awakened Dix- 
| ieland that may be 
called the most 
youthful part of our great Land of 
Opportunity. And Southern business 
men tell him wonderful stories of indi- 
vidual success, which show that the 
Southern States to-day offer splendid 
opportunities for young men of brains 
and ambition and energy. 

But the New Yorker needs not the 
printed data put forth by Southern 
business men's associations — contain- 
ing statistical proof of commercial ad- 
vancement and industrial advance- 
ment in the South. He need not read 
about the South's prosperity, while 
he is still in the South; for he can see 
with his own eyes things which are 
far more convincing than tables of 
statistics. He sees good crops, plenty 
of farm machinery, good houses, new 
farm buildings, new fences, good public 
buildings in the cities, new school- 
houses in the rural districts, new 
banks in the county seats, hew fac- 
tories, new roads, and — newness every- 
where. A Northerner said to a 
Georgia judge: 

"Why, you even have exposed 

"Of course," replied the judge, with 
great dignity, "we have exposed 
plumbing — and also exposed wind 
mills, exposed porcelain bathtubs, 
exposed telephones, exposed type- 
writers, exposed automobiles aiid, in 

fact, sir, all the concomitants and ap- 
purtenances of exposed prosperity." 
That happy phrase, "exposed pros- 
perity," is recalled again and again 
to the mind of the New Yorker, every 
day of his stay in the South. For ex- 
ample, I was a looker-on at a horse 
sale in Kentucky, in a region not so 
very far from that largest tobacco 
market in the world, Louisville. From 
the everywhere of the bluegrass coun- 
try came people bent, seemingly, upon 
a holiday. The four things in which 
Kentucky leads the Union were con- 
spicuously "exposed" — tobacco, whis- 
key, thoroughbred horses and thor- 
oughbred women. 

There were side-shows, as on a circus 
day, and one such show was conducted 
by a magician who, mounted on a 
barrel, was performing tricks. To the 
crowd that assembled around him he 
said: "And now, ladies and gentle- 
men, in order to do my next trick, I 
need a small flask of whiskey. Will 
someone kindly £tep forward and lend 
me a pint flask of whiskey?" 

Not a soul in the crowd moved. 
Response there was none ; only a dead 

"What!" exclaimed the magician, 
"is it possible that in Kentucky, with 
a century of whiskey manufacture be- 
hind us, a State where whiskey once 
passed as currency — is it possible, I 
say, that in this Kentucky I must ask 
twice for a pint flask of whiskey?" 

Just then a man on the edge of the 
crowd shouted: "I say, stranger, 
won't a quart flask do?" 

"Certainly!" yelled the delighted 

Whereupon fully a score of Kentuck- 
ians advanced as ojie man toward the 



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41 1 

I told that story to another New 
Yorker. "Oh, yes," said he, with a 
twinkle in his eye, "the Kentuckians 
told me that story at the same time 
they told me this one: 

"'How did you get your land?' 
asked a newcomer to a scion of an old 
Kentucky family. 

" 'From my father,' was the answer. 

"'And how did he get it?' 

along so close to the levees that we 
were able to exchange greetings with 
the conductor of the train that ran 
along the river-bank, stopping at 
each plantation on its way to New 

Those plantations were wonderfully 
interesting to me, as they seemed not 
only to typify the wide-awake South 
of to-day, but to suggest also the old 




'"From his father.' 
'"And how did he get it?' 
"'Fought for it.' 
"'Well, then, off with your coat!' 
I entered the New South at the 
Delta of the Mississippi. The sail up 
the river to New Orleans is alone 
enough to convince the investigator 
that the prosperity of the South is 
an actual fact and not a mere "boom- 
er's" argument. Our ship steamed 

days when each such plantation was 
a little kingdom in itself, and when 
hospitality was there extended on a 
regal scale. From the boat we could 
see many homes of the planters, digni- 
fied structures, with vast fields spread- 
ing inland as far as the eye could see". 
We passed, too, one great orange 
grove which occupied twelve miles of 
river front. I was told that the owner 
sells the luscious fruit each year for 

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an average round sum of $75,000, sells 
it "on the trees," the buyers doing 
the picking and packing. 

In New Orleans, the capital of the 
Southland, as I heard the Crescent 
City called, the prosperity that is now 
typical of the South seemed even more 
"exposed" than in any other city that 
I afterward visited — more "exposed" 
even than in that city of rapid progress, 

Within five or six years New^Orleans 

earners have been erected. The city 
is now completing new public buildings 
which will cost over $1,000,000. At 
New Orleans is, too, a clubhouse and 
yacht station, both better equipped 
than the buildings of any similar 
club on the Gulf Coast. 

On the quay at New Orleans were 
two very interesting old negroes, both 
hack drivers, who said that, because 
of the Mardi Gras festivities, which 
were then'j" going on" in the city, all 


has grown in'population to the extent 
of 50,000 souls. Within four years 
she has increased her banking resources 
115 per cent. She has made wonderful 
improvements in sewerage, drainage 
and pavement. Further, there are 
very few vacant houses in New Orleans. 
The stranger must build, or live in a 
hotel; and the hotel capacity within 
two or three years has increased 
twenty per cent. 

Within two years a hundred new 
factories have been built here, and 
thousands of new homes for wage- 

the hackmen were charging double 
rates. One of 'the garrulous old men 
added, however, that if I would take 
his picture — and here he pointed with 
a broad grin to my camera — he would 
drive me to my hotel at the regular 
rate. I photographed both of the 
aged negroes, and a few days later, 
when I gave them a copy of the photo- 
graph, they evinced all the delight 
of little children, assuring me, seem- 
ingly in good faith, that it was the 
first time they had ever seen them- 
selves in a photograph. ' 

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But to gd back to that first drive 
through the city — when one of those 
negroes sat on his box cracking his 
his whip and shouting, for my benefit, 
remarks concerning the various points 
of interest which we passed. 

We drove up the quay, passing 
a long line of Mississippi River boats 
all laden with mountains of bales 
of cotton; past the classical, new 
City Hall; through the French 
Quarter with its quaint shops where 
goods were displayed for sale on 
the sidewalks; and across the wide 
Canal street, which divides the old 
city from the new; thence to my 
hotel. * ' 

. But what made the ride most inter- 
esting was the fact that the streets 
were jammed with merry-makers, the 
railroads having brought to the city 
no less than one hundred thousand 
strangers, from all parts of the coun- 
try, all of whom were bent upon en- 
joying the carnival,] or the 
Mardi Gras. 

A few days later I went 
up into the "Sugar Bowl" 
of ||{Louisiana, j there to 
spend a day on a plantation 
as the guest of a planter 
whose acquaintance I had 
made in New Orleans. Can 
I ever forget the whole- 
hearted,; whole-souled hos- 
pitality of mine host? He 
had invited me for one day, 
but once I entered his veri- 
table ^Liberty Hall, he in- 
sisted I should remain 
"over Sunday," which 
meant that my visit should 
be prolonged to four days. 
After the swish of the cane- 
cutter by day, there was 
the swish of silken skirts 
at night in the long parlors 
of the planter's house, 
where a merry company 
gathered for a dance ; while 
without, from the negro 
quarters, came the sound 
of rag time which told of 
the dance, too, of the 
'•hands." p 

My host drove me to 

all the surrounding plantations, where 
the owners treated me with most 
lavish hospitality, saying that as long 
as I remained in their "country" I 
was their guest — in common — utter 
stranger though I was. 

Each plantation seemed to me a 
kind of principality in itself. The 
home of the owner, in each case, was 
a stately old white-columned mansion, 
standing on a little eminence, and 
surrounded by great live oaks and 
magnolias all hoary with pendulous 
festoons of long, gray Spanish moss. 
And for miles and miles around each 
mansion, spread the fields of fertile 
black land. 

And how interesting were_the opera- 
tions at the sugar mills! All the 
planters I^met had adopted modern 
methods on their mills as on their 
plantations. All were alert to the 
march of progress; all were spending 
money freely on new mills and on im- 


yorkbr's CAMERA 

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proved machinery. Many were find- 
ing uses for by-products and refuse 
materials, such as the feeding and 
fattening of cattle on sugar-cane and 

Altogether, I should say that the 
"Sugar Bowl" of Louisiana is to-day 
a golden bowl. Wages are good, and 
plantation hands are not only well 
cared for, housed and fed, but are also 
very kindly treated in other ways by 
owners and overseers. 

ground ; not only in agriculture, how- 
ever, but largely, too, in mining. 
Alabama, Tennessee and West Vir- 
ginia have immense quantities of 
iron ore; Alabama is the second State 
in the Union in the production of coke ; 
and in coal production, West Virginia 
is the fourth State in production, and 
Alabama sixth. Because of the near- 
ness of this iron ore and of this coal, 
the Southern States are destined to 
take front rank in turning the products 


I went on to other States, other 
plantations, other cities, other in- 
dustrial centers, noting in each place, 
and from the car window between 
such places, all the outward signs of 
prosperity. It is obvious, indeed, 
that the South is now making every- 
thing for itself, from a toothpick to 
an oil-burning locomotive. The value 
of personal property in the South is 
now equal to the wealth of the entire 
Union when Lincoln was President. 

Commercial advancement in the 
South springs, of course, from the 

of the ground into manufactured 

Birmingham is already called the 
Pittsburg of the South. It was there 
that business men said to me: 

"If the coal miners of Pennsylvania 
strike again there is no reason why the 
South should not supply all the blank 
spaces left in the coal yards of the 
East. Why, do you know, sir, that 
the South has a mountain range that 
starts at the Pennsylvania line and 
runs — one hundred and fifty miles 
wide — for seven hundred miles down 

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into this very Alabama, the whole 
range being full of coal and iron ore? 
There is wealth enough in that moun- 
tain country to give permanent em- 
ployment to all the coal and iron 
miners in the United States." 

Then, three-fourths of the world's 
cotton in manufactured form is turned 
out in the South, and the Southern 
cotton mills almost invariably pay 
higher dividends than those in the 

the map to indicate China in general. 
"The Chinese Minister at Washing- 
ton," he continued, "made a speech 
in which he declared that if every 
Chinaman would add only one inch 
to the length of his shirt, that alone 
would consume the whole cotton crop 
of the South. Well, let the Chinamen 
add only half an inch — and we'll be 

I visited Pelzer, in South Carolina, 


North. While Massachusetts is still 
in the lead as a cotton manufacturing 
State, South Carolina is a close second. 
A South Carolina cotton planter 
took me into his library and drew my 
attention to a huge map of China, 
which hung on the wall. "I belong 
to the Cotton Growers' Association," 
said he, "and we mean to have fifteen 
cent cotton. But to keep fifteen cent 
cotton, we must have thai for a custo- 
mer." And he waved his hand toward 

where are great cotton mills in the 
midst of a model town. The owners 
employ 2,800 operatives, and the 
town has a population of 6,000, all 
more or less dependent on the mills. 
All the dwelling houses and buildings, 
of which there are perhaps a thousand, 
belong to the company. The town 
is not incorporated (at least it was 
not at that time), but is held as private 
property, and is governed entirely 
by the mill company. 

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The dwelling houses, which contain 
an average of four rooms each, and 
which are rented to the mill hands at 
fifty cents per room per month, are 
tasteful and convenient in construc- 
tion. Each house has plenty of 
garden room. The town has two 
well-equipped schools, attended by 
some eight hundred children, main- 
tained by the company for ten months 
in the year without expense to the 
residents of^the place. So, whenever 

this episode that brought to the minds 
of Southerners the facts that the prod- 
uct of cotton could be worked up into 
finished cloth without transportation 
to a distant manufacturing town, and 
that the South had abundance of un- 
employed labor for mills such as those 
in Massachusetts. To-day the cotton 
mills of Georgia, Alabama and the 
Carolinas consume fully one-third of 
the cotton crop of the South." 

To which I should add that in spite 


I want to tell of a truly patriarchal 
town, I tell of Pelzer, South Carolina. 
"The rapid development of the 
cotton industry in the South," said 
one of the mill-owning "patri- 
archs," "dates from the year 1881, 
when the Cotton Exposition was 
held in Atlanta. At that fair the 
Governor of Georgia appeared in 
the afternoon wearing a suit of cot- 
ton clothes, manufactured on the 
grounds; from cotton which had 
been picked from the stalk that 
morning, the entire process taking 
place in sight of the visitors. It was 

of the great crops it remains a fact 
that much fine land in the South 
capable of producing the best cotton 
in the world, has not yet been culti- 
vated. When this unused territory 
is properly developed, the cotton 
raising industry will advance, and thg 
commercial interests of the South will 
be greatly benefited. 

Other activities in the South that 
interest the Northerner, include the 
operations in the vast woodlands. 
Mississippi, for example, has forests 
of valuable timber as great in area as 
any four New England States. 

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And as for agricultural interests — 
at Society Hill, South Carolina, I 
visited a young New Yorker, Mr. 
Prank B. Van Der Veer, who a few 
years ago bought an immense tract 
of land there, and is now proving that 
peaches can be grown successfully in 
that region, where, as I understand it, 
peaches never grew before. Both 
the State and National agricultural 
departments are very decidedly inter- 
ested in Mr. Van Der Veer's unique 
orchard. He has ten thousand trees 
that give promise at this writing of a 
splendid crop. 

A New Yorker who eats his share 
of watermelons each season, but who 
has never seen that delicious fruit 
"a-growin'," learns with much interest 
the facts about- the five thousand acres 
that are planted with watermelons 
in South Carolina and Georgia. I 
was told that the acreage is divided 
among about two hundred growers, the 
individual tracts ranging from one 
acre to three hundred acres, the 
majority, however, being from ten 
to fifty acres, yielding from two to 
fifteen carloads each. The profits 
of the business, it was said, are very 
large when the crop "hits the market 
just right." 

Finally, I was in Florida — where 
the letters P and F are seen more 
frequently than any other letters in 
the alphabet. On the west coast— 
P; on the east coast — F. Turn in 
any direction in Florida, and one or 
the other of these letters confronts 

On the west coast, for instance, if 
you buy a railroad ticket, you will 
find stamped on its face the letter P. 
Or enter a railroad car, and on the iron 
arm of each seat a P appears in relief. 
Travel by steamboat, and on the 
yellow streamers floating from the 
mast-head, is the letter P. Arrive at 
any one of the large hotels, and from 
the roof flies a yellow flag bearing the 
letter P. Enter one of these hotels 
and register, and the clerk hands you 
a room-key marked P. Each knife, 
fork, spoon and dish in these hotels 
is marked P. The letter P stares at 
you from every table-cloth, every 

napkin, every towel and every sheet. 
And every second workman you meet 
wears a badge marked with a P. 

The whole west coast of Florida is. 
as it were, stamped with a capital P. 
That letter stands for Plant, the Plane 
System. On the east coast the domi- 
nant letter is F. That letter stands 
for Flagler, the Flagler System. 

The State of Florida owes much, 
indeed, to Henry B. Plant, and to 
Henry M. Flagler. For these two 
men, the one on the west, the other 
on the east, made a blade of grass to 
grow in Florida where none had 
grown before. They found an un- 
peopled, waste country. Through 
that country they built their railroads 
first, and then their hotels. To-day 
fruit farms and homesteads abound, 
a hundred towns are now the thriv- 
ing centers of local activities, and 
no end of important enterprises now 
flourish, all in a country that was once 
believed to be "only a wilderness." 

| And so I come now to the subject 
of individual Southerners. While the 
South needs immigrants, many South- 
erners have themselves emigrated to 
other parts of the Union. I met many 
Southerners in Montana; and the 
Southerners in New York are legion. 
Here is Mark Twain who, though born 
in Missouri, was once a Mississippi 
River pilot, and calls himself Southern. 
And here is Frances Hodgson Burnett, 
the novelist, who, though born in 
England, lived most of her life at 
Knoxville, Tennessee. Here are the 
Misses Bisland, from New Orleans, 
all three having made great success 
in New York as writers. Here, too, 
is Hallie Enninie Rives, another 
novelist, who wrote "Smoking Flax," 
and "Hearts Courageous." She is 
a Kentucky woman, and still makes 
pilgrimages to her "Old Kentucky 
Home." "My happiest days," she 
said to me, "were thbse spent hunting 
and fishing in^Kentucky with my 

And here in NewjYork is Mrs. Frank 
Leslie, who recently wrote to me, 
saying: "I was brought .up on a 
Southern plantation by my father, 
who spoke all Latin tongues, and was 

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my teacher, so that I never spent a 
day in school." 

Another time Mrs. Leslie spoke to 
me of the Southern woman as she is 
to-day. "Through a fearful ordeal of 
suffering," she said, "the Southern 
woman has emerged into the noble 

dainty darling that she is, the dainty 
woman of the South who was forced 
out of her seclusion and has proven 
herself both able and willing to stand 
shoulder to shoulder with the women 
workers of the land — able and willing 
to make for herself a high place in the 


conditions of her present life. Perhaps 
more perished in the ordeal than we 
care to count. At any rate, we must 
not believe that only the fittest sur- 
vived. To-day some of the most 
prominent women in literature and 
art, and on the stage, are Southern 
women. Let usadmire her, for the 

new world which she was obliged to 

While many Southerners have set- 
tled in the North and West, many 
Northerners have taken up their resi- 
dence in the South. There is George 
Vanderbilt, with his place of mighty 
acreage in North Carolina — Biltmore, 

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an estate as big as a Northern county. 
Then in resorts like Asheville and Aiken, 
and at places in Florida and Georgia 
Northerners have built their homes. 
Mr. John T. Patrick, the man who 
developed Southern Pines, and Pine- 
hurst and Pine Bluff, said to me: "I 
spent many years, almost alone, in 
these high sand-hills of North Carolina, 
and now thirty thousand people come 
here each year." 

A word about Jekyl Island, the 
millionaire's club, -off the coast of 

of the island, and from him the 
property was purchased twenty years 
ago by the founders of the club. Two 
hours after leaving Brunswick, 
Georgia, by boat, you land at the 
island, which is twenty-one miles 
long, and pays $1,300 in taxes to 
Glynn County. The game preserves 
of the island are said to be among the 
finest in the South. The limit for each 
sportsman is sixty birds a week,and to 
kill a hen means a fine of five dollars. 
'Such are some of the interesting 


Georgia, where I was invited to a 
picnic in the open air in mid-win- 
ter. The island is eight miles from 
the coast, and is owned by ninety 
men. There is a club house that 
cost $250,000, and the aggregate 
wealth of the members is over $300,- 
000,000. Besides the club house, 
there are many cottages costing from 
$20,000 to twice as much each. 

At the time I visited this retreat 
in Southern seas, only one Southerner, 
Mr. John DuBignon, was a member. 
Mr. DuBignon was the former owner 

places the New Yorker visited, such 
the facts he learned, such the South 
as the New Yorker saw it — a South 
wherein the people have set their 
faces toward the goal of prosperity 
with a determination kindled by hope 
and augmented by the degree of suc- 
cess already attained. 

For her immediate future's sake the 
South needs factories and the capital 
with which to build them, of course; 
together with immigrants to work in 
the factories, and settlers to buy the 
land. Already, immigrants are being 

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diverted from the North and West, 
and are turned Southward. The 
United States Immigration Bureau 
is convincing the immigrant that his 
best chance now lies to the South. 

In Alabama and Mississippi I was 
shown numbers of prosperous-looking 
homes and farms belonging to foreign- 
ers who "walked into the South with 
literally nothing but the clothes on 
their backs." 

"But we do not want too many of 
that kind of immigrant," said a busi- 
ness man of Birmingham. "What we 
do want is the immigrant who has 
enough capital to take up land upon 
his arrival here. We have the negroes 
for the field work; we need buyers 
of land." 

For the South to-day is the place 
"where there is room for everybody 
and for everything." 


By Day Allen Willey 

HMONG the many pictures of 
outdoor life in the South per- 
haps none is more interesting 
both to the native of the 
South as well as the North, than a 
cotton field at harvest time. Here 
are to be seen every type of the darky, 
from the white-headed "uncle" to 
the pickaninny just about able to walk 
— all gathering the snowy fleece which 
forms such a golden asset to the land 
beyond the Potomac. In Louisiana 
one sees the workers in the cane fields. 
In Mississippi and the Carolinas the 
woods resound with the blows of the 
axemen cutting down the great pines 
for lumber. Both of these, as well 
as the cultivation of tobacco, are 
picturesque industries, but nothing 
has the significance of cotton to the 
Southerner, consequently anything 
which has to do with the production 
of this staple is of especial interest to 

It was not so many years ago that 
the invention of the grain harvester 
revolutionized grain agriculture in 
the United States, and permitted the 
cultivation of great farms, thousands 
of acres in extent, devoted exclusively 
to such cereals as wheat. Cotton, 
however, is raised to-day in practically 
the same manner as in the times before 
the war, when one plantation repre- 
sented hundreds of acres devoted only 
to its cultivation. From the Caro- 

linas to the farther end of the great 
Texas cotton belt, it has been gathered 
by the field hand just as it was in the 
'sixties. But we are apparently enter- 
ing upon a new era of the industry 
which, while it will take away some 
of the most picturesque features, will 
perhaps be of as much importance to 
the South as was the invention of the 
grain harvester to the Western States, 
for it has become possible to gather 
the crop by machinery which, con- 
sidering its really wonderful accom- 
plishments, is very simple in design. 
For every patch of thirty acres of 
cotton it is calculated that at least one 
man and one mule or horse, are re- 
quired for cultivation alone. When 
the field is ready for picking three or 
four persons to an acre are absolutely 
necessary. The average cotton field, 
however, must be gone over two or 
more times before all of the staple is 
secured, and frequently a score of 
men, women and boys and girls, large 
enough for the work, can be seen in a 
single patch of this size. When it is 
remembered that the entire negro 
population of the United States is not 
more than nine millions, it will be 
seen that the force is not too large 
even if all who are old enough are em- 
ployed; but deducting the percentage 
who live in towns and cities, and the 
children too young to go into the 
fields, it is a question if over five 

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millions are available to be utilized 
during harvest time. The negroes 
are so distributed in the South, how- 
ever, that some of the principal cotton 
growing States have a considerably 
smaller number than states in which 
no cotton is produced. For instance, 
Virginia contains nearly 700,000 alone, 
although the cotton fields are con- 

crop is to be increased to any consid- 
erable extent. Apparently, however, 
the solution of this problem has at last 
been reached by the invention of a 
practical cotton picking machine. It 
is needless to say that such an inven- 
tion has been attempted many times 
in the history of cotton cultivation in 
this country, but thus far not one has 



fined to a few of the counties in the 
Southern section. Tennessee, which 
has but a comparatively small yield 
of the staple, contains nearly 500,000; 
Maryland has about 250,000, although 
no cotton whatever is produced in this 
state. The District of Columbia has 
about 250,000, as well. 

These figures show the imperative 
necessity of additional labor, either 
human or mechanical, if the cotton 

been constructed which could be con- 
sidered practical. One of the principal 
difficulties with which inventors have 
had to cope has been the apparent 
impossibility of gathering the contents 
of the mature bolls without harvesting 
the immature cotton as well. Unlike 
wheat and other grain, as we have 
already noted, the Southern staple, 
even in a single field, does not mature 
with any uniformity; consequently, 

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any device, to be successful, must be * 
so made that only the ripened plant 
will be picked. Trials made with the 
machine in question in Alabama, as 
well as North Carolina, prove that the 
inventor has overcome the difficulty 
referred to. 

The idea of the cotton picker is 
comparatively simple. The designer, 
George A. Lowry, has employed the 
motor mechanism of the automobile, 
not only for propelling the machine, 
but for actuating the harvest appara- 
tus. It is mounted upon a light 

the harvesting arms, as they might 
be termed. The picker is equipped 
with eight of these arms, which are 
guided by four operators, each opera- 
tor of course controlling two of the 
arms. The arms are hollow, and serve 
as conduits for endless belts. Each 
belt passes over pulleys placed at the 
extremities of the arm, and is pro- 
vided with prongs, or teeth, so adjusted 
that when the "picking head," as it 
might be termed, is placed against 
the open cotton boll it will remove 
the fibre. As the belt is continually 


truck, having four wheels with broad 
tires like a traction engine, the surface 
of the tires having cleats attached to 
aid in giving traction. The propelling 
part of the picking machine may be 
called a traction engine, as the rear 
wheels, which constitute the drivers, 
are driven by means of a sprocket 
chain, which is revolved upon a 
toothed gear attached to the driving 
axle of the engine. The engine which 
was used in the experiments was taken 
from a motor car developing eight 
horse power, or sufficient to move 
the picker~over the field and actuate 

in motion the* cotton is carried up the 
picking arm and through a hollow 
elbow, which is fastened to the arm 
by a flexible joint. The elbow is also 
connected with a tube provided with 
a fan. This serves the double purpose 
of "doffing" or cleaning the cotton 
and blowing it through the tube, 
which is suspended over the reservoir 
for holding the cotton. The latter is 
merely a cloth bag, suspended by rings 
above the picking machinery. The 
bottom of the bag is held together 
by a drawing string, so that when full 
it can be emptied into the basket or 

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other receptacle by loosening the 
string and allowing the contents to 
fall out. 

The method of conveying the fibre 
to the bag is not unlike the system 
for carrying it from the gin to the bale 
press, where the round bale system 
is used, the suction of the fans in the 
tubes being sufficient for this purpose. 
The flexible joint by which each 
picker arm is attached to the machine 
places it under such control that the 
operator can guide its movements 
without difficulty and strip the fibre 
from the bolls far more rapidly than 
where it is done by the usual hand 
process, while it is claimed that a 
much smaller percentage is left than 
where the hand is employed. It is 
obvious that the bolls which are green 
can be left untouched, since the 
picker arm is so readily guided when 
in operation. The shafts around 
which the series of picker belts re- 
volve are mounted on the truck frame 
of the machine and are connected to 
the engine also by toothed gears in 
such manner that the movements of 
the pickers are at all times under con- 
trol of the driver and the mechanism, as 
well as the forward motion of the 
machine, can be stopped by the mere 
turn of a lever. 

When this curious automobile starts 
over the cotton field it can be kept 
continually in motion, the speed, of 
course, being regulated according to 
the number of plants. In going over 
a field a second or a third time when 
there are not so many open bolls, it 
travels as rapidly as thirty feet in a 

a minute, yet the pickers can gather 
all of the ripened cotton and stow it 
in the huge bags. As to the expense 
of operating it compared with the 
money which it costs the planter to 
pay his field hands, there is no question 
but that the mechanical picker is much 
cheaper, for trials which have been made 
in the cotton fields of Alabama and 
North Carolina show that fully three 
thousand pounds of the staple can be 
gathered and put in the bags in ten 
hours at a total expense of less than 
$4. The cost of picking a single bale 
of five hundred pounds by hand is so 
much more at the present prices for 
negro labor, that the machine will 
actually effect a saving of at least 
$5 a bale. 

But what the future cotton crop of 
the South may become with such 
machinery to harvest it is interesting 
to conjecture. Everyone knows that 
the area available for growing the 
cotton plant is several times greater 
than the acreage at present devoted 
to it. For example, the fields in the 
state of Texas could easily produce 
5,000,000 bales instead of a little over 
3,000,000 bales, if all of the land 
available for cotton were tilled. The 
same is relatively true of Mississippi, 
Alabama, Georgia and the Carolinas. 
Instead of 10,000,000 or 12,000,000 
bales to a harvest, the South could 
readily produce 20,000,000 bales if 
the facilities for gathering the crop 
were provided by some such machine 
as this, since a single one will perform 
the labor of twenty expert human 
pickers and be infinitely less wasteful. 

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By Lillian Kendrick Byrn 


* / > */ f HILE the articles pro- 
■ ■ I duced * n t ^ ie South — and 
III in the United States for 
that matter — are of small 
value as compared with the products 
of machinery, and cannot be expected 
now or at any time, to cause a notice- 
able decrease in the demand for factory 
products, the revival of this form of 
industry is of no little importance 
from the standpoint of its educational 
value to those concerned in its pro- 
duction, bringing to them a new 
means of livelihood for which they 
have inherited both taste and ability, 
and also a new light on the motive 
of labor. From a social standpoint, 
too, the effect of a common interest 
between the producer and the con- 
sumer inevitably results in the growth 

of a mutual respect between the 
worker and the wearer. 

At Berea the effect of leveling class 
feeling is noticeable to perhaps a 
greater degree than anywhere in the 
South. The mountaineers, once hu- 
miliated by the idea of being obliged 
to wear homespun, now realize the 
dignity of their position as producers 
of a marketable commodity. The 
greatest interest is manifested in the 
study of permanent vegetable dyes 
and color combinations, but very little 
desire is shown to invent new patterns. 
This clinging to the old historical de- 
signs shows not only the loyalty of 
a single-minded people, but shows 
a wealth of imagination as well, for 
it requires imaginative powers to fit 
the names to the designs. 

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The Episcopal Church has estab- 
lished a mission settlement at Proctor, 
Kentucky, which gives special atten- 
tion to the industrial training of the 
mountain boys and girls. In addition 
to the regular branches and cooking, 
instruction is given in sewing, basket- 
weaving and carpentry. The parents 
are encouraged and helped to raise 
"lie best weavers 
uctors in the art 
y make jeans, 
using madder, 
other vegetable 

bounty and is a 
tt County. On 
feud county lies 
re, at Hindman, 
my railroad con- 
ranization of the 
mperance Union 
similar to that 
carried on at Proctor and in Buncombe 
County, North Carolina. Hindman 
is situated at the Forks of the Trouble- 
some River in a very narrow valley. 
The number of children of school age is 
one hundred and ninety-two, and it is 

a noteworthy fact that this is the at- 
tendance at the school. The school 
is free for six months of the year and 
a small fee is charged for three months 
more. The Fireside Industries form 
an important part of the work, and 
the products of the community are 
sold for the people without commission. 
A specialty is in the form of a melon- 
shaped basket, made of splits and 
dyed brown. Last November fire 
destroyed the industrial home, a log 
house of twenty-eight rooms, and the 
log workshop, with all their equipment 
and furnishing, including a hand loom 
over one hundred years old. The 
work, though hampered, has since 
gone forward as well as possible under 
the circumstances. 

The barren lives of the people of the 
mountain territory adjacent to Rome, 
in the northwestern part of Georgia, 
attracted the attention of Mrs. J. 
Lindsay Johnson and she has spent 
several years in an effort to revive 
among them the almost lost arts of 
spinning and weaving. The result of 
her endeavors, while not remarkable 
in output, isjjencouraging. Hats of 


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fcOfc * AVtOk'S MAGAZMfi 

shuck and palmetto are made, and 
baskets also. A gratifying result of 
Mrs. Johnson's work has been the es- 
tablishment of model day schools 
throughout the mountain districts 
and in these, as in the public schools 
all over the State, various forms of 
handicraft are taught. 

When the exiled Acadians settled 
in Louisiana in 1755 they brought, 
with them the thrifty habits of weav- 
ing and spinning, and their hearts 
were exceedingly rejoiced to find 

born and brought up in the Acadian 
region, belongs the credit of reviving 
this^industry and finding a sale for it. 
At the World's Fair in Chicago Mrs. 
Leeds exhibited an Acadian interior, 
the women with their wheels and 
looms, their quaint dress of artistic 
material attracting much attention. 
Similar exhibits at the New Orleans 
Cotton Exposition, the Atlanta and 
Buffalo Expositions and the Minneapo- 
lis Industrial Exposition resulted in 
awakening a widespread interest in 



cotton so easily grown in their new 
home. The simple tenor of their 
lives has changed very little during the 
last century and a half. Much of the 
cotton grown on their farms is still 
carded, spun and woven by hand, the 
patterns of the looms and the fabrics 
having changed not at all during this 
time. Before the Civil War there was 
a ready sale for the Acadian cotton- 
ades, but for some years afterwards 
there was no market for them and 
their production decreased noticeably. 
To Mrs. Sarah Avery Leeds, who was 

the cottonades as well as the award 
of several medals and blue ribbons. 

The Acadians weave plain and 
mixed goods, varying these with small 
checks and stripes. Also they make 
14 Evangeline portiferes" of soft cotton 
flannel. The various shades produced 
by indigo, with red and yellow vege- 
table dyes, are the only colors used. 
Rag carpets and hand-netted valance 
fringes are also made. 

A number of years ago a Swiss 
colony settled near Sewanee, Tennes- 
see, and utilized the lovely mountain 

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\ woods in the production of ^exquisitely 

\ carved salad forks, spoons 'and bowls, 

picture frames and boxes. From these 

thrifty neighbors many of the Covites 

have learned the art of 

rving, selling their 

► the summer vis- 

t Sewanee and 

fle. The theologi- 

jartment of the 

ity of the South, 

at Sewanee, is 

ducting a mission 

or the training of 

K>ys in the indus- 


of these move- 
3 a sincere effort 
part of its pro- 
to bring into the 
f reach habits of 
and to inculcate 
work, thorough- 
, and a complete 
pose, as well as an 
artistic values, 
pose of this article 
al of the domestic 
>m the standpoint 
Dyment in rural 
orthy of note that 
nd crafts in many 
*ans of livelihood 
for many who are incapable of sup- 
porting themselves by more difficult 

Dr. Daniel Coit Gilman, president 
of Johns Hopkins University, initiated 
the movement in Baltimore, in 1902. 
An experimental workroom was opened 
for instruction in wood and leather 
carving, brass and iron work, illumina- 
tion of parchment and designing of 
all kinds. Apprentices have been 
urged to work independently on finish- 
ing the course, and thus each graduate 
forms the nucleus of a guild, and these 
small groups are scattered all over 
the city. 

New Orleans was one of the first 
Southern cities to feel the influence 
of the present Arts and Crafts move- 
ment. The Sophie Newcomb College 
for Girls from its inception sought to 
train its pupils to take a useful part 
in the economic life of the community. 
To this end, various crafts have been 

installed in connection with the college 
life, the aim being to select work 
suitable to local conditions and capable 
of profitable as well as artistic devel- 
opment. In consequence of a strict 
adherence to this idea the Newcomb 
products have a special beauty and a 
distinctive individuality which give 
them a unique value. The designs, 
whether applied to textile or to fictile 
work, are all taken from flora indige- 
nous to the South in general and to 
Louisiana in particular, and are all 
representative of the individual work- 
ers, being signed. This gives the 
maker of a piece of pottery or em- 
broidery as much responsibility and 
as much credit as a signed painting 
would do. 

Pottery was the first experiment in 
handwork at Newcomb College. In 
the endeavor to bring the art training 


of its pupils into directly helpful and 
practical relation with the artistic 
needs of this section the art depart- 
ment, in 1896, commenced experi- 
ments in the making of pottery. 
The unique ware found immediate 
favor with the public, and by , 1901 
the business and the class had 

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subtle con- 
trast of col- 
or, and the 
choice of 
varied hues 
than that 
afforded by 
clay. In 
of its prac- 
tical appli- 
cation of 
art train- 
ing Sophie 
College has 
equipped a 
school of 
which bas- 
es its suc- 
cess upon 
the funda- 
mental training in art which the 
pupils receive before their work is 
admitted as representative of the 
school. Each worker originates her 
own designs. The materials used are 
the homespun linens and cottons, 
whose weaving in the mountain dis- 
tricts has been described. The Jury 
of Applied Arts at the St. Louis Ex- 
position placed the Newcomb embroid- 


grown to such proportions that it was 
necessary to erect a special building 
for the enterprise. The distinctive 
color of the Newcomb pottery is a 
greenish blue, and as has been stated 
before, the decorations are copied 
from Southern plants. The pupils 
are allowed the greatest possible liberty 
in working out their ideas in modeling, 
incising or painting, or in the combi- 
nation of the three methods, and also 
in the choice of colors. In the un- 
painted ware original and striking 
effects in colored glaze are obtained. 
The clay is taken from the bayous of 
Louisiana and Mississippi. With the 
exception of the college cup,, no design 
is ever duplicated and each design 
must be passed upon by a jury before 
being entitled to bear the college 
monogram, which attests its genuine- 
ness. There is, as might be expected, 
a lively competition among the work- 
ers, reputation and profit being prime 
incentives toward industry and ex- 
cellence. The increasing favor with 
which the Newcomb products are 
being received keeps the workers fully 
employed, the demand, at times, 
greatly exceeding the output. 

The art of design, as applied to 
pottery, very naturally leads to its 
application in embroidery, a form 
even better calculated to show the 

ery exhibit in the International Art 
Gallery. The Newcomb pottery was 
awarded medals at Paris, at Buffalo 
at Charleston, at St. Louis and at 

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"When God conceived the world, that was poetry; He formed it, that was sculpture; He colored it, and 
that was painting; He peopled it with living beings, and that waa the grand, divine, eternal drama." — Char- 
lotte Cushman. 

The plays of the past season have crowds that flocked to "Leah Kleschna" 
offered a diversity of themes which and "MonnaVanna" have crowded the 
have reached the popular taste. It playhouses to see " Babes in Toyland" 


cannot be said that either comedy and "Happyland." The "Down 

or melodrama has taken the lead or East" type has shared honors with 

that the work of any one author has innumerable successful Western plays, 

had the strongest hold on the fickle The Barrie-Adams combination has 

toste of theater-goers. The same not been a greater winning card than 

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the Barrie-Barrymore union. There 
has been a number of good new plays 
written for special stars and a number 
of new stars have found their way to 
the front through the medium of a 
happily selected play. The managers, 

those sparkling attractions that adds 
to its bright music, gorgeous scenery 
and costumes, the witchery of ir- 
resistibly pretty women. The cast 
of eighty members includes Blanche 
Ring, Anna Laughlin, May Naudain 


to a unit, have been prodigal in their 
expenditures for stage settings and 
costumes. Altogether, the season has 
been a most satisfactory one from 
every standpoint. 

The new comic opera, "His Maj- 
esty," by Shafter Howard, is one of 

and a chorus of eleven stunningly 
dressed " Broadway Beauties." From 
left to right these are, Louise Ducey, 
Frankie Darnell, Grace Farrell, Mar- 
garet Berrian, Florence May, Minnie 
Woodbury, Edna Fant, Eloise Win- 
ter, Clarice Sohmer, Evelyn Por- 
ter and Margaret Malcolm. Harry 

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Kelly, Knute Erickson and Van Rens- 
selaer Wheeler are the principal male 

When Richard Mansfield selects 
a play he not only makes a thorough 
study of its historical setting and its 
artistic possibilities, studying the lan- 
guage of thej[country in which its 

takes her art seriously and spends her 
leisure in study, no social invitations 
being sufficiently alluring to draw her 
from her retirement. She is deeply 
interested in the question of the es- 
tablishment of a National theater. 

As "J onas >" the negro servant in 
William Gillett's "Secret Service," 

Buker Art. Gallery, Columbus, Ohio 


scenes are laid, but he requires his 
support to do the same. When the 
possession of undeniable talent is 
added to these requirements it can 
be seen that positions in the Mansfield 
company are not in the nature of 
sinecures. Miss Rockwell, the leading 
lady during the last season, is well 
qualified for the position, her talent 
and marked beauty enabling her to 
adorn each part assigned her. She 

Mr. Clint. G. Ford's performance was 
pronounced one of the best sustained 
roles in the play. This will be of 
especial interest to many of our read- 
ers, from the fact that Mr. Ford is 
a Southern man, Tennessee claiming 
him as a son. Since adopting the 
stage as a profession Mr. Ford has 
been connected with the leading actors 
of the country. He is with the ' ' David 
Harum" company this season. 

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The House op Mirth. By Edith 
Wharton. New York: Chas. Scrib- 
ner's Sons. Price, $1.50. 

It is hardly possible to praise too 
highly Mrs. Wharton's latest book. 
In it she shows not only a complete 

bridge debts on a stinted allowance, 
impresses this point indelibly upon 
Lily's character and subsequently pre- 
vents her acting up to the saner and 
nobler view of life which Selden, the 
hero, awakens in her. This ability 
to recognize and appreciate the best 

Illustration from "The True Andrew Jackson" 

mastery of technique but a profound 
understanding of the human spirit 
and its curious [workings. The title is 
derived from the Book of Ecclesiastes, 
vii. 4: ("The heart of the wise is in the 
house of mourning; but the heart of 
fools is in the house of mirth"). The 
story centers around Lily Bart, a 
beautiful orphan living with relatives 
who believe that the one thing worth 
while in life is to live sumptuously on 
Fifth Avenue. The difficulty of mak- 
ing a good appearance and paying her 

in life is constantly being overwhelmed 
by the convictions received from her 
early training, and the conflict works 
havoc with the poor heroine's charac- 
ter and career, her lover finally reach- 
ing the conclusion that she is not the 
woman he has thought her to be, and 
her repulsion to a sordid marriage 
preventing her relatives from making 
the brilliant match for her for which 
they have trained her. Her gradual 
descent in the social scale and her 
death are sympathetically yet vividly 

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drawn, and the reader realizes, as 
does the lover, ^that there^dwelt in 
LilyjBart a noble soul, r-v 

However, as interesting as^the story 
is, its chief A value lies In the trenchant 
character delineationj displayed. The 
drawings are by A. B. Wenzell, and 
are, of course, thoroughly suited to 
the text. 

The True Andrew Jackson. By 
Cyrus Townsend Brady. Philadel- 
phia: J. B. Lippincott Co. Price, 

The aim of the ,, true ,, series of biog- 
raphies is to present in entertaining 
form, free from glamor, unbiased 
accounts of the great epochs and 

characters in our national history, 
with as close fidelity to the truth as 
can be gleaned from the conflicting 
record of events. Mr. Brady prepared 
himself for writing the life of "Old 
Hickory" by several years of close 
study of the career of this many-sided 
personality.'*! An extended chronology 
of Jackson's fclife is prefixed to the 
volume and an appendix embraces a 
catalog of the historical papers men- 
tioned in the text. The series also 
embraces: "The True History of the 
American Revolution," "The True 
History of the Civil War," "The True 
George Washington," "The True 
Thomas Jefferson," "The True Benja- 
min Franklin," "The True William 
Penn," "The True Abraham Lin- 
coln" and "The True Henry Clay." 


On and after April 1st, 1906, the 
corporation of the Lyman D. Morse 
Advertising Agency will be known as 
the Morse International Agency. 

This agency had its beginning over 
sixty years ago and constituted a 
special form of business activity in 
newspaper advertising which had but 
newly developed through the com- 
mercial conditions existing then. It 
was founded by S. M. Pettengill, in 
1849, and met with success from the 
start. Mr. J. H. Bates was early ad- 
mitted to partnership and the name of 
S. M. Pettengill Company became pro- 
verbial as the leading advertising 
agency in the United States. After 
many years of the firm's unlimited 
success, Mr. Bates in 1886 bought out 
the entire interest of Mr. Pettengill, 
thus becoming sole owner of this large 
business; but the firm name continued 
as J. H. Bates until January 1, 1893, 
when Mr. Lyman D. Morse, who had 
been active with Mr. Bates for a 
number of years, became partner in 
the concern and caused the firm 
style to be changed to Bates & 

After two years of partnership with 
Mr. Bates, Mr. Morse became the sole 

owner of the business and the name of 
the firm was changed to the Lyman 
D. Morse Advertising Agency. 

On March 1, 1898, H. Henry Doug- 
las became the partner of Mr. Morse 
and so continued until the latter's 
death on March 6, 1901. 

On April 1, 1901, the firm was incor- 
porated under the laws of the State of 
New York with the same name: — 
Lyman D. Morse Advertising Agency, 
— and with the following officers: 
H. Henry Douglas, President; Irving 
M. Dewey, Vice-President and Treas- 
urer; G. Howard Harmon, Secretary. 

The Lyman D. Morse Advertising 
Agency, therefore, being the oldest 
establishment of its kind in America 
and having, through its large clientele 
and progressiveness developed wide 
international connections, it is be- 
lieved expedient to adapt it in name 
to its enlarged sphere of operation 
by changing its business style to the 
Morse International Agency, 38 Park 
Row, New York. 

^ Owing to increase of business, neces- 
sitating larger offices, the corporation 
will move its offices on May 1st to the 
Revillon Building, 19 West 34th Street, 
New York. 

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VOL.. Ill JUNE, 1906 NO. 3 


By Governor Taylor 


The destruction of the city of San Francisco early on the morning of April 
1 8th added the greatest and most dramatic of all incidents to the growing 
list of New World catastrophes. Not the Galveston flood, nor the great fire 
of Chicago, nor the Charleston earthquake, nor the Baltimore fire, which 
swallowed $60,000,000 of property in forty-eight hours, compared with this 
latest destruction. To the unmeasured horrors of the earthquake were added 
the known terrors of fire, so that what the former left was devoured by the 
latter, as if they were sensible and systematic allies of annihilation. There 
is no terror comparable to the heart-sick fear which a violent earthquake pro- 
duces among intelligent human beings. It is a fear bofn of the consciousness 
of supernatural power" in irresistible action — a power which can neither be 
combated nor fled from. With the earthquake shock comes a hopelessness 
and despair which is no part of any other calamity or danger that comes to 
men. The greatest fire that ever reduced a city to ashes casts its glare, not 
far away, on peaceful fields and dew-besprinkled meadows, and just beyond 
is the inviting old forest with its cool nooks and its singing waters; we may 
find a refuge from the wildest tornado that ever twisted its way through the 
handiwork of men; the experienced mariner may sing with a brave heart as 
he drives his good ship homeward through the maddest sea that ever raged; 
the army marching to battle, and the soldier in the deadly charge, may look 
with confidence upon the eternal hills and borrow coinage from the stead- 
fast mountains; but when the very beds of the ocean are unsteady, and the 
tranquil hills tremble and the towering mountains totter, then it is that the 
sustaining promises of nature forsake us, and we stand appalled as if the stars 
had gone out, or the sun had dropped from its course, or the moon had ex- 
ploded into sparks before our eyes, and there is no place of refuge to look to in . 

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such an hour, unless, indeed, we may look upward, through the lens of a whole- 
some faith. 

It will probably take a century or more to entirely eradicate from the 
minds of the future inhabitants of the new San Francisco all fears of a recur- 
rence of the horror, but the pluck and genius of the American people will re- 
build the metropolis of the Pacific on grander and more beautiful lines. Not 
alone will Californians rebuild. It shall be the work of the Nation, aye, of 
the whole world. Men do not build cities, but where there is need of a Lon- 
don, or a New York, or a San Francisco, there they come, driven by economic 
necessity. So it will be with the new San Francisco. The trade of many 
peoples and many lands must pass through her portals, and before the hinges 
of the Golden Gate shall have time to gather rust it will be swinging to the 
music of the world's commerce again. 


It was soap-making day in our back yard and 01' Aunt Edie had her 
skirt pinned up and her sleeves rolled above the elbows and was chopping and 
cleaving and mincing up bones and things and b'ilin' lye that had been drip- 
drip-dripping from the old rickety ash-hopper for ages. In my estimation, the 
old oaken bucket has held the footlights about long enough and is entitled to 
no more reverence than the old dripping hopper, the creening old hopper, the 
propped-up ash-hopper, twenty feet from the well. Soap wasn't made then out 
of dead h<*rses. A big wash-kettle was swung to a pole resting on forked stakes 
and filled half full of lye and set b'ilin', and then all the old ham-bones and 
sp'iled j'ints andrancid scraps of second-hand grease were thrown in, stirring be- 
tween times, and as they were eaten up, more bones and more b'ilin' and 
more stirrin', and then more b'ilin' and more grease, until it was b'iled doVn 
to mush and set off to cool. Sometimes something was mixed in to make hard 
soap, which was cooled off and cut into three-cornered cakes of cadaverous 
hue and slimy, sticky feeling. The. product, however, was usually very soft, 
and very repulsive looking, whereof if you got any on your hands you held 
them out dangling and turned your nose sideways until you could find some- 
thing to wipe them on. But it was soap sure, and at its approach on wash 
day dirt and filth threw up the sponge. 

Just foreninst the b'ilin' place was where the cook emptied all the dishwater 
and slops, and it was the finest place for fishing worms, I dare say, on the Ameri- 
can Continent. I have traveled and observed a great deal and I think I know a 
thing or two about fishing worms, and I am prepared to maintain my conten- 
tion as to these worms in joint debate, if challenged. I expect, first and last, 

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I have hooked ship-loads of fish with worms dug right on that spot. True, 
most of the fish dropped back and got away, but I never laid that on the worms. 
They did their part well — up-to-date, first-class worms — and they deserve this 
belated tribute. I've sometimes thought that maybe I jerked too quick, or 
too late, or too hard, or too easy. Jerkin's the thing you've got to learn if 
you want to get your ship-loads out on dry land. Perhaps I ought to say 
that I didn't really measure my fish by ship-loads. We had no ships in the 
mountains then, and I would mislead no one. 

Aunt Edie was b'ilin' soap that day and I was digging worms, and I got 
a big one that I thought was part eel, and dropped him into the b'ilin' lye to 
see if he could swim. 

"Dar! Jes' look at dat meddlety brat drappin' dem squirmity wums in 
dat soap! G'way fum here dis instink! I 'speck all dat soap'll 'gin to crawl 
off soon's it cools. I nuver see sech a spligity boy in all my bo'n days. I'se 
gwine to sont you in de house." 

The battling block stood near Aunt Edie, with a great, broad battling- 
stick on it, big enough to kill Indians or bears with, and I saw her eyeing it. 
But I had read all the "Leather Stocking Tales" and I was up in Indian war- 
fare, and I wasn't going to get in reach of that war-club. A battling block 
is a bench on which our ancestors mauled the suds out of dirty clothes and 
broke all the buttons. It was before washboards and clothes-wringers came 
into the world to save sinners from breaking their backs over the wash tub. 
When Aunt Edie "sont" me into the house I seized my bait-cup and pole 
and oozed out at a crack in the back fence in something less than a jiffy. 

Ash-hoppers are built of boards set up like the letter V in a trough and 
ought to hold when normal about eleven bushels of wood ashes. The ash- 
hopper stood right here, and alongside the smoke-house was a bench for the 
wash tubs and a place for the churn to sun, and over there was the wash-place. 
And here were the pens to hold the old hens as soon as they got through hatch- 
ing, and the cute little chicks could squeeze through the cracks and get out to 
do their own scratching. There was the kitchen chimney, looking like some 
big, squatty woman, and up in the corner were stacked my poles, not ten 
feet from the worm-bed. The chicken coop leaned up against the back of the 
smoke-house, and it was up on its mossy roof, screened from prying gaze by 
hanging boughs and leaning walls, I crouched one memorable day and smoked 
my first segar. I thought then that if I lived to tell it I'd never tell it. Meas- 
ured by the wretchedness of it, I had been retching just a week and had suc- 
ceeded in reproducing all I had eaten in four months, when I caught Aunt 
Edie peering up over the eaves at me. 

"Po' li'l boy! Crawl here 'n let mammy wipe he Til sick face!" 

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And when she got me down and saw my plight she said: 
"Dat seegyar mus' 'a* had eppercack in it fum all dis here, an' a moughty 
heap at dat. Gi' me dat seegyar stump — I'se gwinter smoke it my own se'f 
jes' to see what make my li'l honey tu'n hisse'f wrong side out dat erway." 

I went back there twenty years later and found a cigar-stumpy smell still 
brooding around the back of that smoke-house. 


Alphonso the Wise impiously declared: "Had I been present, at the 
creation, I would have given some useful hints for the better ordering of the 
universe." It is not altogether irreverent to pick some flaws in some of the 
modern degenerate types of created things since their deformities may al- 
ways be traced to man's shortcomings. The original perfect form may yet 
be unimpaired but its expression has degenerated. It does not impugn the 
wise Creator to wonder and deplore the fact that the beauty of women fade 
all too soon, since we know that it is her own fault, and we catch ourselves 
harboring "some useful hints" we might have given, if we had been with 
Alphonso the Wise at the creation, for perpetuating unimpaired the female 
charms divine. Omniscience brooded through endless cycles, from a time 
which had no beginning, to settle upon the plans for creation and begin to 
fashion forth its perfect forms; and then when at last He had made it, He set 
man king over it all. As yet woman had not been conceived by Divine Genius, 
or, if conceived, the intended type was held too sacred to be fashioned out 
of dust, and it was not until His matchless creature, man, had grown to the 
full stature of his God-like perfection that He sought to know what most 
his nature craved to fill the full measure of his happiness; and then, rejecting 
the sordid material out of which His masterpiece was made, He chose that 
which had been refined in a crucible of blood into a living principle for the 
fashioning out of His first loving thought for the happiness of man. 

We may only imagine what a beautiful creature it was that stood blush- 
ing before Adam on that bright morning in Paradise when he arose from his 
bed of roses to greet the vision of his transporting dreams. We can never 
hope to see her thus again, but bless God, we know how beautiful she still 
is, and we cannot help wondering why it was that such unspeakable perfec- 
tion should be permitted to fade so soon. If Adam's sin had brought no direr 
curse than this it would have been enough to keep man in tears till judgment 
comes; and if there were no other promise made of joys eternal, to know that 
he will be permitted to see and love and worship her in her restored form of 

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matchless loveliness is enough to keep man on his knees till the summons 

The Lord made all things perfect. He made man a little lower than the 
angels, and now see what he is. If woman has fallen away from her former 
state iA like proportion, it cannot enter into the imagination of the dreams 
of man to conceive even faintly the transcendent beauty and loveliness that 
glorified her in Eden. There's a glimpse of it vouchsafed us along about sweet 
sixteen. Why should not it have been spared to remain unfading until the 


Year Victims 

79 — Pompeii and Herculaneum 

destroyed Thousands 

115 — Antioch destroyed Thousands 

557 — Constantinople Thousands 

742 — Syria and Palestine, 500 

towns ruined Thousands 

1137 — Catania, Sicily 15,000 

1456 — Naples v 40,000 

1531— Lisbon 30,000 

1626 — Naples 70,000 

1638 — Calabria Thousands 

1667 — Schamaki (lasted 3 months) 80,000 
1693 — Sicily, 54 cities and towns 

and 300 villages) 100,000 

1703 — Jeddo, Japan 200,000 

1731 — Pelrin 100,000 

1746 — Lima and Callao 18,000 

1755 — Lisbon 50,000 

1759 — Baalbec, Syria 20,000 

1797 — Curco, Quito and other 

towns. 40,000 

1812 — Caracas Thousands 

1822 — Aleppo 20,000 

1851 — Melfi, Italy 14,000 

Year Victim* 

1 857 — Kingdom of Naples 10,000 

i857 — Quito 5,000 

1863— Manila 1,000 

1869 — Several towns in Peru and 

Ecuador 25,000 

1872 — Inyo Valley, California 30 

1875 — Towns near Santander, on 

the border of Colombia ... 1 4,000 

1878 — Cua, Venezuela 300 

1880— Illapel, Chile 200 

1 88 1 — Scio and several villages 4,000 

1883 — Island of Ischia, Italy 2,000 

1883 — Krakatoa and other Java 

volcanoes Thousands 

1 884 — Severe shocks in England ... 5 
1884 — Andalusia and other parts 

of Spain 1,170 

1 885 — Province of Granada, Spain 690 

1886— Charleston, S. C 41 

1887 — Riviera and southern Eu- 
rope 2,000 

1891 — Japan 4,000 

1902 — St. Pierre, Martinique, erup- 
tion of Mont Pelee 40,000 


Buildings Buildings 

Year Destroyed Loss, Gold Year Destroyed Loss, Gold 

London 1666 12,000 $80,000,000 Boston 1872 776 $75,000,000 

San Francisco.. 1851 1,250 13,000,000 St. John, N.B.. 1877 600 13*500,000 

New York 1853 674 15,000,000 St. John's N. F. 1878 675 25,000,000 

Chicago 1871 17,430 186,000,000 Baltimore 1904 1,450 60,000,000 

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If childhood is the 
sunrise of life, youth is 
the heyday of life's 
ruddy June. It is the 
sweet solstice in life's 
early summer, which 
puts forth the fragrant 
bud and blossom of sin 
ere its * bitter fruits 
ripen and turn to ashes 
on the lips of age. It 
is the happy transition 
period, when long legs 
and loose joints, and 
verdant awkwardness, 
first stumble on the ves- 
tibule of manhood. Did 
you never observe him 
shaving and scraping 
his pimpled face till it 
resembled a featherless 
goose, reaping nothing 
but lather, and di rt, and 
a little intangible fuzz? 
That is the first symp- 
tom of love. Did you 
never observe him 
wrestling with a pair 
of boots two numbers 
too small, as Jacob 
wrestled with the an- 
gel? That is another 
symptom of love. His 
callous heel slowly and 
painfully yields to the 
pressure of his perspir- 
ing'paroxysms until his 

Long legs 

and verdant awkward- 

feet are folded like fans 
and driven home in the 
pinching leather; and as 
he sits at church with 
them hid under the 
bench, his uneasy 
squirms are symptoms of 
the tortures of the infer- 
nal regions, and the 
worm that dieth not ;but 
that is only the penalty 
of loving. When he be- 
gins to wander through 
the fragrant meadows 
and talk to himself 
among the buttercups 
and clover blossoms, it 
is a sure sign that the 
golden shaft of the 
winged god has sped 
from its bended bow. 
Love's archer has shot 
a poisoned arrow which 
wounds but never kills. 
The sweet venom has 
done its work. The 
fever of the amorous 
wound drives the red 
current bounding 
through his veins, and 
his brain now reels with 
the delirium of the ten- 
der passion. His soul 
is wrapped in visions 
of dreamy black eyes 
peeping out from under 
raven curls, and cheeks 
like gardens of roses. 

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To him the world is transformed into 
a blooming Eden, and she is its only 
Eve. He hears her voice in the sound 
of the laughing waters, the fluttering 
of her heart in the summer evening's 

last sigh that shutsjthe rose ; and^he 
sits on the bank of the river all day 
long and writes poetry to her. Thus 
he writes: 

As I sit by this river's crystal wave, 
Whose flow'ry banks its waters lave, 
Methinks I see in its glassy mirror, 
A face which to me than life is dearer. 
Oh, 'tis the face of my Gwendolin, 
As pure as an angel, free from sin. 
It looks into mine with one sweet eye, 
While the other is turned to the starry sky. 
Could I the ocean's bulk contain, 
Could I but drink the watery main, 
I'd scarce be half as full of the sea, 
As my heart is full of love for thee ! 

Thus he lives and loves, and writes 
poetry by day, and tosses on his bed 
at night, like the restless sea, and 
dreams, and dreams, and dreams, until 
in the ecstasy of his dream, he grabs 
a pillow. 

One bright summer day a rural 
youth took his sweetheart to a Baptist 
baptizing; and, in addition to his ver- 
dancy and his awkwardness, he stut- 
tered most distressingly. The singing 
began on the bank of the stream, and 
he left his sweetheart in the buggy, 
in the shade of a tree near by, and 
wandered alone in the crowd. Stand- 
ing unconsciously among those who 

were to be baptized, the old parson 
mistook him for one of the converts 
and seized him by the arm and 
marched him into the water. He 
began to protest: "Ho-ho-hold on, 
p-p-p-parson, y-y-y-you're ma-ma- 
makin' a mi-mi-mistake!!!" "Don't 
be alarmed, my son, come right in," 
said the parson. And he led him to 
the middle of the stream. The poor 
fellow made one final desperate effort 
to explain: "P-p-p-p-parson, 1-1-1-let 
me explain!" But the parson coldly 
said: "Close your mouth and eyes, 
my son!" And he soused him under 
the water. After he was thoroughly 
baptized the old parson led him to the 
bank, the muddy water trickling down 
his face. He was "diked" in his new 
seersucker smt, and when the sun 
struck it it began to draw up. The 
legs of his pants drew up to his knees; 
his sleeves drew up to his elbows; his 
little sack coat yanked up under his 
arms. And as he stood there trem- 
bling and shivering, a good old sister 
approached him, and taking him by 
the hand said: "God bless you, my 
son. How do you feel?" Looking, in 
his agony, at his blushing smeetheart 
behind her fan, he replied in his an- 
guish: "I fe-fe-fe-feel 1-1-1-like a d-d-d- 

If I were called upon to drink a 
toast to life's happiest period, I would 
hold up the sparkling wine, and say: 
"Here is to youth, that sweet Seidlitz 
powder period, when two souls with 
scarcely a single thought, meet and 
blend in one ; when a voice, half gosling, 
half calliope, rasps the first sickly con- 
fession of puppy love into the ear of 
a blue-sashed maiden at the picnic in 
the grove!" But when she returns 
his little greasy photograph, accom- 
panied by a little perfumed note, ex- 
pressing the hope that he will think 
of her only as a sister, his paradise is 
wrecked, and his puppy love is swept 
into the limbo of things that were, the 
schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an 

But wait till the shadows have a 
little longer grown. Wait till the 
young lawyer comes home from col- 
lege, spouting Blackstone, and Kent, 
and Ram on facts. Wait till the 

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Puppy Love 

young doctor returns from the uni- 
versity, with his whiskers and his 
diploma, to tread the paths of glory 
"that lead but to the grave." Wait 
till society gives welcome in the bril- 
liant ball, and the swallow-tail coat, 
and the patent leather pumps whirl 
with the dkcoUeU and white slippers 
till the stars are drowning in the light 
of morning. Wait till the graduate 
staggers from the giddy hall, in full 

evening dress, singing as he stag- 

After the ball is over, after the break of morn, 
After the dancer's leavin', after the stars are 

Many a heart is aching, if we could read them 

Many the hopes that are vanished, after the ball. 

It is then that "somebody's dar- 
ling" has reached the full tide of his 
glory as a fool. 

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Of the New York Mutual Life 


In Italy they had been tempted to 
forget the -days of Pompeii. After 
each of the later and milder de- 
structions of Vesuvius the 
Vesuvius peasants had crept back 

up the mountain side. Then early 
in April last came a not entirely un- 
expected eruption. But it had little 
in common with those memorable 
days of '79. This time the lava rolled 
lazily down the mountain side and gave 
ample warning. 

This catastrophe and the San Fran- 
cisco earthquake occurring so wide 
apart in distance and yet so near to- 
gether in time have again aroused the 
curiosity of the world to know some- 
thing of the cause of both. That there 

is an intimate connection between 
them there is little doubt. Yet the 
origin of neither is fully understood. 
Like the mountain ranges they e£ch 
cling to the water's edge and each 
could very justly be spoken of as by- 
products of mountain formation. The 
elements in the problem are these: 
An earth whose interior is intensely 
hot, subjected to terrific pressure, 
contracting as it gradually cools. 
Add to this the presence of water. 
Volcanoes thus probably come of the 
mingling of heat and water. Earth- 
quakes are perhaps the jar of the slip- 
ping of fissures in the earth's crust, 
which fissures were caused by the con- 
traction of that crust as it gradually 

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cooled. Perhaps the sudden penetra- 
tion of water into the superheated 
interior and the consequent instan- 
taneous explosion of steam has some- 
thing to do with the terrible phe- 
nomenon. Perhaps causes we know 
little of now are at the bottom of it all. 
Some things must be left to be dis- 

for theft and deception in high places. 
Wherever there is muck, hurry for the 
rake, only be careful lest you step on 
the flowers. 

It is curious to note what misfor- 
tunes have befallen the lives of the 
men whose days were taken up with 
the business of insuring 

veY«g n a«oi n ' the UveS of otherS ' Mc " 
Call, McCurdy, Alexan- 
der — no novel has yet been written 
containing greater pathos or deeper 
disappointment than were compressed 
into the lives of these men. And 
George W. Perkins, who but yesterday 
was many a man's model, and Bliss 
also, and Cortelyou, by whom the 
preachers used to illustrate the story 
of the good young man who could say : 
"All these have I kept from my youth 
up." Then one remembers that even 
Rockefeller is an outlaw ! Such things 
make humble men less discontented 
with their lot. Perhaps that is their 
most blessed use. This seems to be 
a day of revelation. First it mas mu- 
nicipal rottenness and then the Life 
Insurance grafts. Panama has come 
in for a full share and the National 
banks have had things hinted at them. 
And the poor old Senate — if we are to 
believe the man with the muck-rake, 
they are traitors, almost all. 

Yet the Republic survives — and 
will survive. The masses of men to- 
day are essentially honest. There 
have been abuses and they look black 
in the sunlight but — is it not proof 
positive of the predomination of the 
spirit of commercialism — this selling 
of men's reputations? There are per- 
haps men in the senate who have sold 
their votes and who would sell their 
souls, but let it be remembered that 
there were always such, even if not so 
numerous, and there are grand men 
and patriots in the Senate to-day just 
as in the days when Calhoun and Web- 
ster thundered there. Not a word of 
this is to be construed as an apology 

While the public does not hear so 

much of the Panama Canal as at the 

beginning, both houses of Congress 

and the President seem 

A r^ir^ n to be doing what they 

Corollary . ? . « \ 

may toward the prompt 

execution of that vast undertaking. 
In anticipation of the great changes 
which must necessarily take place in 
the transportation facilities of our 
country many railway lines have 
turned their eyes upon the Gulf Coast 
and the South Atlantic seaports are 
taking on significant activity. There 
are not many good ports of entry on 
either the seaboard or the Gulf Coast, 
so that the necessary concentration of 
business which will result must make 
great cities of New Orleans, Galveston, 
Mobile, Pensacola and Gulfport. Over 
on the Atlantic, Savannah and Charles- 
ton and Wilmington and Jacksonville 
are experiencing the renascence that 
they deserve and both sets of cities 
are becoming the goal of much rail- 
roading. The cheap coal fields of the 
South happen to lie not far from these 
ports and enable them therefore to 
become eventual coaling stations for 
much of the coastwise trade that will 
spring up as if by magic. Altogether 
the Southern States have unquestiona- 
bly the brightest future before them 
of any part of our country. 

If the American athletes who repre- 
sent us in the Olympic games do not 
return with many laurels it will not 
be because American in- 

The r?! y J? PiC Merest in their success 
dames , ,_.,, _ . . 

lags. The favoritism 
which some claim has been shown in 
their selection does not dampen essen- 
tially the very natural American ardor 
for their victory. At the time of 
going to press the score of the com- 
peting nationalities stood as follows : 

American, eleven; English, includ- 
ing Canadians, four; Greeks, three; 
Swedish, two; Finlanders, one. 

The Stadium in which the games 

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were given was built at the expense present herewith gives some idea of 

of Georges Avaroff, and seats some its U-shape and its immense capacity. 

50,000 people, which probably makes More than three hundred years before 

it the largest athletic structure on Christ there was a similar structure 

earth. The photograph which we upon the same spot. 

From itereograph, copyright, 1906, Undertcood A Underwood, New York 


Hie greatest theatre of the world, where the International Olympic Games are held. The Stadium seats 
60,000 people. It is the theatre of the Panathenaean games, which was laid out by the orator Lykourgos 
about 830 B C, and which was rebuilt four hundred and seventy years later (about 140 A.D.) in white Pen- 
telle marble. This magnificent pile of marble was burned for lime and otherwise used up during the dark 
ages. Within the last few years it has been rebuilt of white marble at an expense of some millions of 
francs by M. Avaroff, of Alexandria. The excavation and removal of the earth and debris was at the 
private expense of King George. The entire length of the course is 670 feet, the width 100 feet 

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The gradual easing of conditions in strike in the winter. It falls upon 
the coal fields and the approach of those least able to bear it and adds 
summer gave the public a great deal many a recruit to the ranks of Social- 
less cause for anxiety ism. It is a difficult thing to love 
The Socialistic during the last month, one's country with its beneficent in- 

Tendency The time has come when stitutions when one is freezing. It is 

few things could happen a fortunate thing that the dominant 

in this country that would bring parties are disposed to alter their 

greater suffering or more generally courses so as to meet the ultra-radicals 

disastrous results than a great coal by conceding that which is right in 

From stereograph, copyright* 1906, Underwood A Underwood, New York 

A remarkable sea level canal, connecting Saronic Gulf I with the Gulf of Corinth, Greece 

Digitized by 




their demands. Had Mr. Roosevelt's 
suggestion that an inheritance tax on 
large and excessive fortunes would be 
shortly necessary come from a Socialist 
it would not have seemed as true but 
would have seemed a great deal more 

social or moral force in the world. Some- 
thing got in the way and sidetracked the 
South, shunted us on the wrong track and 
we have floundered in shallows and miseries. 

It would be difficult to compress 
into as many words as the above any 


natural. It is also a curious fact that 
Mr. Bryan should now be called a con- 
servative Democrat by the very men 
who once considered him so danger- 
ously radical. 

It is a matter of surprise that in 
this day when the South is fast re- 
gaining her ascendency it should re- 
main for a Southern 

Some Shunted man> a m i n i s ter, of At- 

00,(1 lanta, Dr. John E. White, 

to write in the South Atlantic Quarterly: 

The scientists affirm that copper is simply 
aboriginal, elemental matter that was on its 
way to become gold, but got shunted on the 
wrong track, got pocketed and stopped 
short of the splendid result. The first hun- 
dred years of Southern history show a 
people vastly influential and on the way 
to an increasingly glorious contribution to 
the happiness and progress of mankind. 
The last fifty years of Southern history, it 
is admitted by every intelligent and candid 
Southern man, reveals that the South has 
not been and is not now any great political, 

clear and concise statement of as gross 
injustice as Dr. White has done. If 
there be any man who has known the 
South of the last fifty years without 
loving her, without admiring her, with- 
out recognizing in her the uncrowned 
queen of lands, he is lacking in ability 
to appreciate heroism, devotion, un- 
daunted pluck, deep ingrained religion. 
He has not read, he could not have 
read of how a ruined country, as deso- 
late as the ash pile and as unconquera- 
ble as her native gamecocks, has built 
in less than a generation an empire 
at which the world is wondering. In 
less than a generation she has recon- 
structed her whole social fabric and 
laid foundations for a great commer- 
cial future. In the long years of dark- 
ness that followed the days of the 
South's desolation she has not faltered 
once. None of her senators are in the 
penitentiary nor any indicted for be- 
traying their trust. But her spindles 

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in a thousand cotton mills are weaving thusiasm and one of her distinguished 

more cloth than all New England, sons should be ignorant of it. It is 

where forty years ago it was all done, easy to apotheosize the heroes of the 

and even now the second and third past. Strong men become gods if 

cities of export of America are in the enough time be given. Wait till an- 

borders of the old Confederacy. other generation has come upon the 

And if by social power Dr. White stage and there will be no era in the 

means the force of exalted domestic life of their country so precious, so 

ideals and a clinging to the true and full of glory as the era in which 

the good in social life, he simply does Southern men changed their homeland 

does not know his South. It is passing from desolation to the most prosperous 

strange that other men should know section of the Union, and did it with- 

and admire her generosity, her hospi- out the sacrifice of one noble tradition 

tality, her unbounded religious en- o{ the past. 


Before the morning clouds have paled, 
We strive to pierce their mists and see, 

Beyond the mountain's frowning slopes, 
The soul's fair land of Italy. 

A happy land of poets' dreams, 

Of cloudless sky and foamless sea, 
Where earth and heaven touch and blend — 

Beyond the Alps lies Italy! 

Oh, land of promise, magic sweet, 
What wonder that we sigh for thee! 

What wonder that our fancies turn, 
And smile and sing of Italy! 

We dream, nor know it for a dream, 

Of all that we may never see; 
We long, nor know it all in vain, 

For that fair land of Italy. 

And when in dreams we catch faint gleams 

Of azure sky and sapphire sea, 
Our hearts go singing as they toil, 

Of life and love and Italy. 

And still, with age-dimmed eyes, we strain, 
And gazing, dream we still may see; 

God keep us hoping to the end ! 
Beyond the Alps lies Italy! 

Mary Antoinette Dickinson, 

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By Gelston Spring 

5 OR the sixth time 
. the girl in the little 
v room had pulled back 
. the window curtain 

I and gazed wistfully 
into the narrow street 
below . For the sixth 
time she gazed anx- 
iously into her little 
mirror. For the 
sixth time she came 
back to the little center table, with its 
chenille cover, and tried to read her 
evening paper. 

" Jimmy,' ' she whispered to herself, 
"where are you, Jimmyboy? Why 
don't you come — to me?" She 
stooped and straightened a bit of 
faded carpet that covered a portion 
of the well-worn floor. She stepped 
to the corner and straightened the 
patent rocking chair until it stood just 
right. "You don't treat me right, 
Jimmy," she went on, talking to her- 
self, "you don't treat me right. How 
many times have I bought the little 
cakes, and made the lemonade, and — " 
She stopped short and listened. Some 
one was laboring up the bare stairs; 
some one was striding in the dark, 
uncertainly, along the hall. She 
stepped to the door and flung it open. 
Her face had been pale, but now the 
color rushed to her cheeks. 

"Jimmy," she cried, with a gesture 
of welcome that was wholly feminine, 
affectionate and kind. And then, 
suddenly, obeying some instinct, she 
drew back — far back to the little 
table — and watched him enter. 

"Jimmy," she repeated, but with 
a note of tragedy in her tone. He had 
come in; had closed the door behind 
him; had brushed past her, with the 
air of one who would avoid the near- 
ness of her presence; had flung his hat 

into the corner, and himself, Jimmy 
Jurgens, into the patent rocking chair, 
and sat there, blinking at her. He 
was young, was Jimmy Jurgens; and 
he was big, and good looking, save as 
to the unwonted flush upon his cheek, 
and the uncertainty in his unsteady 

"I'm late," he said to her, with a 
tremor in his voice. "I'm late. But 
— I came away. They wanted to keep 
me, but — I came away, Trix. I did 
it, all right. I came away." 

The girl, her face gone pale again, 
sat down and faced him. "Where 
have you been?" she asked. 

He shuffled his feet impatiently. 
"With — the crowd," he answered. 

"The old crowd, Jimmy?" she 
queried, tremulously. 

"The crowd/' he answered. His 
voice grew stronger as he said it, and 
its strength reassured him. "A man 
has got to have a crowd," he ventured. 

She rose to her feet and pointed her 
finger at him. "Every man but you, 
Jimmy Jurgens," she answered, al- 
most fiercely. "A crowd is not for 
you. Dutch Mike's is not for you. 
Such places as the Homestead — they're 
not for you. They may be for Prime 
and Kennedy and such, but they're 
not for you." She softened just a 
little and drew her small chair forward 
and sat down near him. 

"Jimmy, Jimmy," she cried, and 
the mother, tone mingled with the 
maiden's voice, "I want you to be 
good — good." 

Jurgens snorted with righteous 
wrath. "Good," he protested, "good/ 
I am good. That's what. You'd 
ought to see some o' those chaps, Trix. 
Good! I'm good all right. Any- 
ways," he went on, somewhat sul- 
lenly, "I broke away and came over 

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here to-iiight. It's hard enough to. 
break away," he added. 

The girl subsided for awhile. She 
fingered for an instant the puny,- 
small, bejewelled band of gold that 
encircled the third finger of her left 
"hand. It was her engagement ring; 
the tie that bound her, young as she 
was, to Jimmy Jurgens, young as he 
was. She had worn it now for two 
long years; she had worn it because 
she loved Jimmy with all her heart and 
soul, and because Jimmy loved her. 
She was a girl of the people, was this 
girl; one of primal emotions; one of 
obvious motives. She was beautiful 
in her commonplace way; and she pos- 
sessed a figure and a head of hair that 
were the envy, the admiration, and 
the despair of the young men and 
women she knew. Within her was 
the matrimonial instinct; she belonged 
essentially to those who mate. And 
she might have had any of her choice. 
Big Billy Prime of the thread factory 
was wont to catch up to her now and 
then and tell her what he thought. 

"You were aye the girl for me, 
Trixie," he would say, with his bit of 
a brogue. "I'm waitin' for you, 
when you say the word. . . . She's 
not the girl for Jimmy Jurgens," he 
would mutter to himself. 

But she knew better. "Jimmy 
picked me out, and I picked him out," 
she would say to herself in the solitude 
of her room, ' 'and there we are, Jimmy- 

.She lived alone in a Clark Street 
tenement, an atom of the tenement 
house aggregation. She had had a 
father who was, perhaps, something 
less than an atom of that aggregation; 
and she had buried him and had paid 
for his funeral, and then — had begun 
to save money; to save money toward 
the time when she and Jimmy would 
go down the ages hand in hand to- 
gether. And then, suddenly, here she 
was facing, not Jimmy, but this thing 
that held him in its grasp. And she 
knew so much, too much, about it. 

"What does the drink do for you, 
Jimmy?" she asked him in her des- 

"It makes me forget," he told her, 
"forget that I'm down at the bottom, 

without a foothold, without a chance 
to work up, with no pull with the boss. 
It's made me forget that I'm doing 
nothin' but punchin' holes in a separa- 
tor factory for ft living, and nothing 
else in sight. It makes me forget 
that it's taking so long a time for 
me to get you, Trix. Maybe you 
don't understand. I'm a man that 
must get along. And here I'm 
punching holes in tin. You don't un- 
derstand it. How can you, anyway ? " 

Young Jurgens was right in one 
respect. He had started his career 
in a thread factory in the time of 
plenty; he had been laid off in the 
time of famine; he had gone into a 
varnish factory when it needed men; 
had been discharged when the need 
was over; he had sought the next best 
thing, and then the next and the next. 
He was a floater, and for just one 
reason. The next man had had the 
knack of hanging on, and Jimmy 
hadn't. When men were laid off it 
was Jimmy Jurgens, good man as he 
was, who was laid off first. Now he 
was in one of the two big rival cream 
separator works in the big, overgrown 
town — the Imperial concern. And 
day after day he did what any man 
might do — punched small holes in 
the corners of the octagonal cylinders 
that went to make up the machines 
that did the separating work. And 
within him was a turbulence that 
would not be stilled. He, too, felt the 
matrimonial instinct; he, an atom 
among an aggregation of men, felt the 
pride, the hopes of men; and felt 
them, tinctured as they were, with 
unqualified failure and disappoint- 
ment. . But there is ever, in the eyes 
of men, a panacea, and Jurgens found 
it in the Homestead, and in Dutch 
Mike's, around the corner, and in the 
old crowd, and in the forgetfulness 
that these things brought to him. 
And all these things seemed good, 
And as he sat in the room of this girl 
he heard them calling to him with 
unwonted music in their voices. And 
he rose. 

"I must be going, girl," he told her. 
He tried to draw her toward him and 
tried to kiss her. But she eluded him. 

"Not to-night, Jimmy," she told 

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him. "You mustn't kiss me to-night 
— nor any night until you're good." 
But she held out both her hands to 
him. "I want you to be good, 
Jimmyboy," she pleaded, "I want 
you to be good." 

He drew his hand across his face. 
'Til be good, Trix," he answered. 
He left her, never looking back at her 
as she stood there, lamp in hand, 
lighting his way along the hall. Per- 
haps if he had looked back — but he 
did not. 

"I'll be good," he told himself, 
"after to-night. I'll have it out to- 

He went back to find the crowd. 
He didn't find it. He could get no 
trace of it. "All right," he told him- 
self, "I'll have a fling myself — the 
last one." And he started out — 
alone. There is pathos in a crowd of 
drinking men; but the man who 
drinks alone is tragedy incarnate. 

The Imperial concern was working 
on the biggest contract it had ever 
swung. It was a youthful concern, 
was the Imperial Cream Separator 
Company, turning short corners, hold- 
ing its breath hard and tight now and 
then over the financial jolts, but 
hitherto its journeys had been safe. 
Now it held the Geisler contracts 
—everybody in the dairy business 
knows them. It had bid against the 
Creamery Separator works at the 
other end of town, and had secured 
the business. But Ilingworth, the 
young president of the Imperial, knew 
what it meant. 

"I'll have to sell my shirt to do it," 
he assured his staff, "but we've got 
to swing this thing, or bust! And 
we'll not bust at that." 

And every man was put on his 
mettle, Jurgens among them. And 
there was a night when Jurgens had 
been out, alone. And after the night 
out, there had come the morning; 
and with the morning Jurgens had 
gone to work, outwardly placid. He 
was a fast worker, was Jimmy Jurgens, 
and on this morning he started out to 
beat all previous records. And sud- 
denly, late in the afternoon, he found 
the foreman bending over him, irate 
with wrath. 

"What's the matter?" queried Jur- 

"You get out o' here," cried the 
foreman, "get out o' here, Jurgens, 
you — " And suddenly the superin- 
tendent had entered the arena of 
events, and behind him had come 
Ilingworth, the president. And the 
men looked on and held their breaths. 

Jurgens went first. And Ilingworth 
had gone next and shut himself into 
his private room with the superin- 
tendent. "Confound it!" he cried, 
with a wail in his voice, "this means 
hundreds of dollars in tin to us and 
where are we going to get it?" And 
outside, men caught the foreman by 
the sleeve and asked about it. 

"Drunken lout!" the foreman an- 
swered. "Jurgens was drunk, and 
punched holes in the faces instead of 
in the corners/ And you know what 
that means, in this here place. The 
blamed galoot! With new tin as 
scarce as silver dollars, too. Drunk, 
the blamed galoot!" 

Jurgens, plodding wearily along, 
up one block and down the other, was 
no longer drunk. He understood what 
he had done, too well. 

"I ought to have quit, last night," 
he told himself. "It's too late now." 
He felt in his pockets. He was with- 
out money. He kept on, walking 
the streets. It may have been some 
proper impulse, or it may have been 
his penniless condition, that led him 
at the last, to the door of the girl that 
loved him. It was open to him. He 
entered and sank wearily into the 
patent rocker. And the girl knew; 
she could see upon his young face the 
lines left by the debauch of the night 
before. He had stepped suddenly 
from the wayward path of youth into 
the hard-paved road of a man with a 
vice — with only one, it is true; but 
with one that was all too vicious. 

Ten minutes later Jimmy Jurgens 
was once more upon his feet, making 
his way toward her open door. She 
had taken off the puny little band that 
bound her outwardly to Jimmy Jur- 
gens, and she held it toward him and 
he took it. He could not help himself. 

"You — you don't mean this, Trix?" 
he cried, remorse lending desperation 

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to his voice. "You — you can't mean 
it, girl !" 

She pointed to the crayon of her 
father on the wall. "I have to mean 
it," she answered. "Do you think 
that I don't know what it is to live a 
life with a drunkard? You can go, 
Jimmy, and don't you ever come back 
here any more." 

And then, abject as he was, he 
shuffled over toward her and asked 
her — for what? A dollar. She gave 
it to him. He seized it with alacrity, 
and went. And he knew and she 
knew, where that dollar was to go. 
And for the rest — nothing save a girl 
lying face downward on her little bed, 
crying out in the night: "Jimmy, 
Jimmy, Jimmyboy!" That, and Jim- 
my Jurgens investing blood money 
in forgetfulness. 

And as the night waned, under 
varied emotions, Jurgens strode from 
his last place, his last glass, with a 
purpose in his soul. He would go to 
the works — his works; he would get 
even. He had been wronged some- 
how, and the works were responsible 
for it. That much was sure. He 
would go there — it was getting late — 
he must be even with them, somehow, 
before morning. And he reached the 
works and climbed a fence, and crept 
through the cluttered up yard, full 
of refuse, to a back window. Some- 
how he climbed in. 

"'M in, all right," Jurgens told 
himself. A strong purpose, a definite 
idea, was upon him. He would wreck 
the place. But he didn't. The ex- 
traordinary exertion of getting in 
the place exhausted him. He told 
himself that he would lie down for 
awhile and sleep, and get strong, and 
then there would be doings. And 
then, with a cunning born of the de- 
mon in his soul, he crept into a corner, 
under several unused work benches, 
hidden by rubbish, and quite out of 
sight. Jimmy Jurgens slept. 

The sound of voices waked him. 
He was well sobered. He lay still. 
Fear was upon him now — fear of the 
vengeance of his employers; fear, too, 
of the law. He had broken and en- 
tered in the night time. His mind 
exaggerated all these things, and he 

lay very, very still. Finally, he was 
well assured that none could see him. 
And the voices forced themselves in 
upon him. 

The voice he heard the most was 
that of Ilingworth. "We'll try 'em 
anyway," said Ilingworth. "Con- 
found it, we're up against it if they 
won't work some way." The convic- 
tion was forced home upon Jimmy 
that they were talking of his fiasco of 
the day before. 

"Get a couple of cans of milk down 
there." This time it was the super- 
intendent. As in a dream Jurgens 
heard the familiar sound of hammer- 
ing a separator together and making 
it tight ; it seemed like seconds to him, 
but he knew that it was taking many 
minutes to do it all; he heard the 
swish-swash of the milk; he heard the 
steady motion of the revolving disks — 
a sound that drove him back to the 
realms of sleep, and. then suddenly — 

1 * By thunderation ! " The voice was 
the voice of the superintendent. 
There was a sudden hurried move- 
ment; the sound of men crowding in 
about a given point, as they had 
crowded in about him yesterday — 

1 ' Every man get out! ' ' Again it was 
the superintendent's voice. There was 
a shuffle of unwilling feet. Then 

"Don't be too sure/' said Iling- 
worth, in a low voice. 

The foreman uttered an oath, a 
triumphant one. "Sure?" he almost 
screamed. "Suref Why, thundera- 
tion, man, you don't have to be sure. 
You can seel The thing is working 
twice as well as she used to do, with half 
the work, in half the time! Sure? 
Hell and blazes! Sure? Well, I 
should say!" 

There was another deep silence, 
broken only by the revolutions of the 
separator. Then the superintendent 

"And it was left," he said grimly, 
"for a drunk to find it out. Why 
hasn't anybody found it out before?" 

"Look here," broke in Ilingworth, 
the president, "this is sub rosa between 
us. Not a word of this, until — " 
And the rest was whispering that 
Jurgens could not hear. 

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Jurgens got out somehow in the 
tumult following the blowing of the 
noon whistle. He went foodless all 
day. Six o'clock found him slinking 
in the hallway of Trixie's tenement. 
It seemed an eternity before she came. 

"I've got to see you," he told her. 
He followed her like a dog up the stair- 
way. He slunk into her room. He 
did not seat himself, exhausted as he 

"You sent me away," he told her, 
"and I only came bade because I had 
to tell you." 

He told her, step by step, the things 
that had happened. He- told her the 
full significance of it — but she had 
understood that, at a glance. 

"Trixie, ,, he told her, "I know the 
business. I'm a separator man — I've 
been there long enough. And I crept 
over and I saw, I tell you, that what 
they said was true. I watched the 
clock. I timed it. I know. And 
this means — " 

The girl listened. And she watched. 
For she saw that in the face, the voice, 
the manner of Jimmy Jurgens there 
was a new quality that had never been 
there before — ambition. It did not 
occur to Jimmy, and perhaps it did 
not occur to her, that the benefit, 
perhaps, belonged to Jimmy's em- 
ployer. The point was, that Jurgens, 
by accident, by vice, by inadvertence, 
had done something himself — and he 
knew, and she knew, the value of 

* * We've got to patent it! " They were 
saying it in the same breath. And 
it was there that Jurgens was brought 
up with a round turn. 

"I can't, Trixie," he wailed. "I 
didn't think, but I can't, don't you 

"Why?" she queried. 

"Trixie," he said contritely, "I 
borrowed a dollar off of you last night 
to get drunk on. I got drunk, all 
right. A dollar'll do it. But this— 
this will cost dollars, and a trip to 
Washington, and right away." 

The girl caught her breath. "Jim- 
my," she said, "you've lied tome a 
good many times." 

He bowed his head. 

"Maybe I'm lying to you now," he 

answered. * ' You' vegot theright to say 

"I suppose," the girl ventured, talk- 
ing apparently to herself, "that there's 
times when a man has got to lie. 
But," and again she caught her breath, 
"I'm not going to trust you any more, 
Jimmy Jurgens. Not any more." 
Again he nodded. "And it's only 
because," she went on, "you can't 
trust yourself, Jimmy" She stopped 
and was silent for many minutes. 
Jimmy, misunderstanding, and dis- 
couraged, started to slink out as he 
had slunk in. But she darted forward 
and caught him by the hand. 

"Jimmy," she cried, "have you got 
the ring?" He fumbled in his pocket 
" and produced it. He had kept it. 
For behind Jimmy Jurgens' one vice 
there had been the silent, steady love 
and longing of Jimmy for this one 
girl of his, who had clung to him with 
a grip quite as tenacious as his weak- 
ness had been strong. He had the 
ring and he passed it over. But she 
refused to take it. 

"Jimmy," she said, "don't give it 
to me now, for you'll need it. 
Jimmy," she went on, "you're going 
down to Washington to get that patent 
out ; and you're going right way. I've 
got the money. I've saved it up, for 
you and me. And you're. going to 
use it for this, Jimmy." She stepped 
to his side, and nestled close to turn. 
"But, Jimmy Jurgens," she went on, 
"you're not going to take the money, 
and you're not going on alone. We're 
going together, Jimmy Jurgens. To- 
gether." She hid her face upon his 
shoulder. "Jimmyboy," she whis- 
pered, "it's to be our wedding journey, 
don't you see 9" 

For an instant Jurgens stood there, 
dazed and uncertain. Then he 
stretched forth his arms and crushed 
her to his breast. . . Hand in 
hand, through the miserable darkness 
of the halls of the tenement, they went ; 
hand in hand, through the murky dusk 
of the dingy street, they went; and 
they were hand in hand as they stopped 
in front of a little dingy store, and 
pushed open a door that tinkled to 
announce their presence. And they 
were still hand in hand when a shabby 

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little man came out of a rear room, 
and grinned upon them — a man whose 
name does not matter, but whose 
nature was the nature of a justice of 
the peace. . . And the ring, with 
its twofold tie to bind the two to- 
gether, was soon back in its accustomed 
place; and the words to be said were 
soon said, and the door was once more 
opened, and the tinkle of its little gong 
sounded for all the world like the peal 
of marriage bells. 

Jimmy Jurgens and his bride came 
back after three days, and Jimmy went 
to work. He did not go back to his 
own people, but he crossed the town 
and sought employment at the works 
of the Creamery Separator corporation, 
the rival of his old concern. He ob- 
tained it, such as it was; and started 
out from one room every morning and 
came back to one room every evening; 
but the room was his — and Trixie's; 
and they were well-nigh penniless. 
And he waited. But he did not wait 

Perhaps, as between Ilingworth, on 
the one hand and Jimmy Jurgens on 
the other, the honors were even. 
Jimmy Jurgens had assumed that 
the new improvement which he had 
invented upon the separators was his 
own. Ilingworth, on the other hand, 
had assumed that it belonged to him — 
because of its accidental discovery. 
But Jimmy Jurgens, so it seemed, 
had seized opportunity by the fore- 

On that fateful day when Jimmy 
had lain underneath the rubbish and 
when the three men of the works had 
put their heads together, the confer- 
ence had resulted in thehastyfprepara- 
tion of a set of plans and drawings, 
setting forth the new discovery; and 
two days later they were shipped to 
Washington by mail. But Jimmy 
Jurgens was already there, upon his 
wedding journey. And Ilingworth 
found that his application for a patent 

"Find out why," he told his book- 
keeper. "Write down and find out 
who's in ahead of me. Some duck 
a thousand years ago, I reckon." 

They wrote and learned. 

"I'll fix it up," said Hingworth's 
foreman, darkly, to Ilingworth, "he's 
only a drunk, at best." 

The foreman started out to fix it up. 
He found Jimmy Jurgens in the bosom 
of his family. 

"So, so," he said. "Jimmy, could 
I see you outside?" Jimmy stepped 
outside. " Jimmy,' ' whispered the 
foreman, "it's business that I've got 
to talk. Can you step around to the 
Homestead with me for a ten minutes' 
conversation? Oh, I got enough cash 
for two of us, I guess." 

Jimmy Jurgens smiled. He pulled 
the foreman by the sleeve and es- 
corted him back into the one room. 
"This" he announced, "is the Home- 
stead. Now, fire away." 

The foreman began to fire away. 

"Just a friendly talk," he said. 
"Where are you working, Jimmy?" 
Jimmy told him. The hair on the top 
of the foreman's head stood up. 

"No, no," he gasped, "not with 
them Creamery people. Why, man 
alive, they'll rob you of your pay!" 

Jimmy shrugged his shoulders. 

"The pay, Mr. Sullivan," he re- 
turned, with a wink, ' 'is good enough — 
for me, or any other man. I'm well 
satisfied, I am." 

Jimmy laughed about it afterwards. 
The foreman had turned pale and had 
gone, a discouraged, uninformed man, 
back to report to his superior. 

"Well satisfied," laughed Jimmy to 
his bride, "and us without enough 
meat to eat." 

"You did it clever, Jimmy," she 
responded, "clever." 

It was clever — clever enough to 
bring Ilingworth around the next 
night to see them ; to argue with them, 
to bully them, to threaten them — to 
attempt all manner of things. 

But after some thirty minutes of 
heated controversy, even Ilingworth 
caved in. 

"We've got to have this thing, 
Jimmy," he said, "but you know the 
circumstances. If you won't let us 
use it, we'll use it anyway. As it is, 
what do you say to, well— assistant 
foreman, with a possibilitv of a raise? 
What do you say to that?" 

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Jimmy and his bride started in- 
voluntarily, but imperceptibly. 

"Oh, I don't know/' yawned Jimmy. 
"I'll come around next week and talk 
about it." 

And when Ilingworth had gone they 
threw themselves into each other's 
arms. "But," ventured Jimmy, "it's 
what I told you, Trixie. It wasn't 
the merit that did it. It was the hold 
that I had upon him. That's the 
trick that did it." 

But Trixie shook her head. "It's 
something more than that, Jimmy," 
she answered. 

Somehow or other, she was right. 
For two months later Jimmy Jurgens 
came rushing back to her in a frenzy 
of excitement. 

"Trixie," he cried, "Trixie, girl! 
What do you think? I'm an inventor 
— a real one and I never knew it. 
That thing I did that time — that was 
just accident, but now I've done some- 
thing else." He sat down and un- 
folded on the table a few rough draw- 
ings. "Look, girl," he said, "this 
knocks all the separators that we have 

now higher than a kite. They don't 
know it, down at the works. But / 
know it. And with it, Trixie, we can 
get all the contracts in the world. 
Look at it! It's simple as A B C. 
Trixie girl," he said, "listen. Do you 
know what this means? It means 
that to-morrow, next day, the day 
after, I can get an interest in the firm. 
Trixie girl, look at met I know. It 
means that some day I'll be the biggest 
man in the separator business — that 
I'll control the separator world — that 
I'll be a trust! I know." 

She stood away from him and 
looked upon him. She knew then just 
as well as she knew later, that he 
spoke truth, that he was already 
James Jurgens, inventor, proprietor, 
eventually millionaire — James Jur- 
gens, the man who had found himself 
through her. 

But she only smiled and crossed to 
where he stood and held the rough 
drawings up in the air. 

"Jimmy." she whispered to him, 
"isn't it about time now for another 
bridal trip — to Washington?" 


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Daughter of Jefferson Davis 

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Macon, Ga. 

from m portrait *y Chmrlt Pr§4§riek N—g&r, 

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■ • • • •* & 

Wdm of e*-Goveroor McMUlin of Tennessee; President Tennessee Federation Women's Clubs 

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New Orleans and New York 

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Regent Cumberland Chapter. D, A. R. 

From a portrait in Colonial costume by L. Kivhy-Parrish 

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Macon, Ga. 

Wife of Secretary American Legation r Tokip, Japan; formerly of Washington 

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San Antonio, Texas 

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By J. K. Collins 

CONSIDERING the near ap- 
proach of the year 1907, with 
all it is expected to embrace, 
include and accomplish, the 
word Jamestown becomes one to con- 
jure with. So broad is its meaning, that 
the whole world will stand expectant, 
at gaze as it were, anticipating, trust- 
ing, confident of great and important 

It is hoped and believed that during 
the great gathering which will assemble 
on Virginia's historic soil, the Univer- 
sal Brotherhood of Man, the oneness 
of the human race, in a broad and 
practical sense, may be given an im- 
petus that will speak for peace and 
harmony between nations; that the 
greeting of our great nation and the 
hearty response of other nations may 
be such as to cement the ties of busi- 
ness relationship and intercourse, to 
such an extent that even to the utter- 
most parts of the earth its influence 
may be felt ; and that the day may be 
hastened when war and bloodshed 
will no longer be considered indis- 
pensable to the settlement of national 
differences of opinion ; that eventually 
these horrors may be forever relegated 
to the past, as a relic of barbarism 
and the Dark Ages. It does not take 
a prophet to forecast this. The expo- 
sition at Hampton Roads will en- 
courage in every nation a love of 
country, an indispensable attribute 
to the success of any people ; there can 
be no greater asset of any government. 

For amicable emulation in naval 
and military display the Hampton 
Roads affords an unrivalled harbor 
and the bordering shores offer splendid 
situations for military encampment. 

A terrace, on which will stand thir- 
teen handsome buildings, representing 
the thirteen original States, will orna- 

ment a shore section of Hampton 
Roads and will be perhaps the most 
remarkable feature of the exposition, 

It is a matter of no small interest to 
go back three hundred years and trace 
step by step the repeated efforts of 
those first English settlers, their te- 
nacity of purpose and their determina- 
tion to accomplish and overcome, even 
though surrounded by an environment 
of hardship and violent death. There 
is no better proof of the fact of eternal 

The tenth of April, 1606, was full of 
fate in shaping the destiny of the 
Western Continent. It was on that 
day that King James issued the two 
celebrated patents authorizing certain 
subjects of his kingdom to possess that 
portion of North America lying be- 
tween the 34th and 45th parallels of 
latitude. The tract thus jehtbraced 
extended from the mouth of Cape 
Fear River to Passamaquoddy Bay 
and westward to the Pacific Ocean. 

An association of nobles, gentlemen, 
and merchants received the first pat- 
ent under the name of the London 
Company; while the second one was 
organized in the southwestern part 
of England at Plymouth, and bore the 
name of the Plymouth Company. 
These two companies controlled four 
degrees of latitude each, with three 
degrees lying between. This narrow 
belt had certain restrictions imposed 
upon it by which neither of the land 
companies could make a settlement 
within one hundred miles of the other, 
though it was open alike to both. 

Bartholomew Gosnold, who a few 
years before had attempted to plant 
a colony and failed, was chiefly instru- 
mental in organizing the London 

The terms of the charter in this day 

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of broader freedom seem very narrow 
and contracted, inasmuch as not a 
single principle of self-government 
was admitted and the colony was re- 
quired to hold property in common 
for a period of five years. The affairs 
of the company were administered by 
two councils : one residing in England 
and one in America. The members 

and among these was that man of 
genius, Captain John Smith. 

Interest is rife in regard to all the 
details of that colonization — the per- 
sonnel of the ship's company who first 
sighted Cape Henry and landed there, 
where an iron cross, imbedded in the 
stone masonry of the abandoned but 
picturesque Cape Henry lighthouse 


were chosen by the King, and subject 
to removal at any time by the same 
arbitrary power. 

Notwithstanding the hard terms of 
the charter, they were accepted and 
a fleet of three vessels was fitted out, 
the Susan Constant, the Goodspeed and 
the Discovery under command of 
Christopher Newport. They sailed 
with one hundred and five colonists, 

(still standing on the sand-swept 
dunes), bears mute testimony to the 
courage of those voyagers. 

The community life of the Virginia 
settlers and the tribal customs of the 
Indians who resisted their invasion, 
have bec6me subjects of present in- 
terest. In short there is immediate 
demand for a scientific history of the 
first two years or more of the James- 

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town Colony, with the characteristics 
of each man of prominence portrayed. 
It is said that this history is in process 
of being written. 

On account of a mistake being made 
by the commander they were several 
months in reaching the American 
coast, and having reached it found 
they could not land, being overtaken 
by stormy weather. It had been in- 
tended that a landing should be made 
at Roanoke Island, but the prevailing 
storm carried the ships northward into 
Chesapeake Bay, landing briefly at 
Cape Henry, then crossing the bay to 
a point, which they called Point Com- 
fort, from its safe harbor. They were 
still unsatisfied, so they coasted along 
the southern shore until they came 
to the mouth of a broad and beautiful 
river, which they named in honor of 
King James. 

They proceeded up this river until 
they came to a peninsula of great 
beauty and verdure. Sailing around 
the point they were more and more 
attracted by its natural loveliness; so 
much so that here they determined 
to make a landing. The ships were 
accordingly moored and the emigrants 
went on shore. 

Here, on the thirteenth day of May, 
1607, was founded Jamestown, the 
oldest English settlement in America. 
Being a devout people a church was 
at once erected, out of old sails nailed 
to the trees. There the service of the 
Church of England was read daily, with 
preaching twice on Sunday, and holy 
communion every three months. Their 
town of tents they called Jamestown. 

In the words of a sometime governor 
of Virginia — "Here the old world first 
met the new. Here the white man 
first met the red for settlement and 
civilization. Here the white man first 
wielded the axe to cut the first tree 
for the first log cabin. Here the first 
log cabin was built for the first village. 
Here the first village rose to the first 
State capital. Here was the first 
capital of our empire of States. Here 
was the very foundation of a nation 
of freemen, which has stretched its 
millions and its dominion across the 
continent, from the Atlantic to the 
Pacific oceans." 

It wasa little more than a century af- 
ter Cabot's discoveries and forty-two 
years after the founding of St. Augus- 


To quote from one of Virginia's 
brilliant daughters: 

"The American nation, for which 
we feel so much love and pride, which 
sentiments we wish to transmit with 
fervor to our children and our chil- 
dren's children, has in the past three 
centuries attained a place in the 
wor d's history which is unprecedented. 
From this point we, as a united people, 
may pause in our prosperity and com- 
memorate with pride and justice the 
honored names which have contribu- 
ted to the making of this great country. 
To do this is a proud heritage as well 
as a duty. But in recording and pre- 
serving the anniversaries of our mem- 
orable events and in the setting up of 
our milestones of history, and honor- 
ing in song and story the patriots, 
statesmen, pioneers and soldiers whQ 
have made it we have strangely neg- 
lected the foundation stones of our 
existence as Anglo-Saxon people. We 
have forgotten and ignored the one 
heroic, intrepid and chivalrous figure 
who shaped and planted it — Captain 
John Smith. 

To him, the first great man in Ameri- 
can history, we are indebted for our 
national existence. He is the real 
founder and preserver of the Anglo- 
Saxon race in America:" 

The three small vessels, Susan Con- 
stant, the Goodspeed and the Discovery 
found a haven and dropped anchor 
thirteen years before the Pilgrim Fath- 
ers landed at Plymouth Rock. 

To the skill of Captain John Smith, 
his perseverance, fortitude and in- 
domitable courage, the preservation 
of the colony can alone be attributed. 

To him we owe our laws, language 
and Anglo-Saxon lineage, for had the 
Jamestown colony failed as did its 
predecessors on Roanoke IslandAmeri- 
ca would have been absorbed by the 
adventurers of Spain; they at that 
time were forcing their settlements 
northward from Mexico and Florida, 
and the expedition of the Pilgrim 

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Fathers and their later settlements 
in Massachusetts might never have 
been heard of. 

John Smith discovered, surveyed 
and mapped New England seven years 
before the settlement was made at 
Plymouth. He it was who gave the 
names of New England, Boston, and 
several other localities which are still 
retained. His own works and those 
of other chroniclers show conclusively 
what he accomplished and the meager 
reward he has received at the hands 
of this prosperous country. 

To show his love and loyalty to his 
country he states himself in his 
"Memoirs," written 1624: "This Vir- 
gin Sister, New England at my humble 
suit by our most gracious Prince 
Charles hath been chargeable to me, 
for which I never got one shilling but 
it cost me many a pound ; yet I think 
myself happy to see its 'prosperities, 
for in neither of these two Virgin Sis- 
ters of the New World (Virginia and 
New England) have I got one foot of 
land, nor the very house I builded, nor 
the ground I digged with mine own 
hands, nor any content or satisfaction 
at all." He died in 163 1, in the fifty- 
second year of his age, and was buried 
at St. Sepulchre's Church in London. 

A movement is on foot, inaugurated 
by the Association for the Preserva- 
tion of Virginia Antiquities, to erect 
a heroic monument to the memory of 
this great man, to be placed either in 
Jamestown, Cape Henry at the mouth 
of Chesapeake Bay, or on an island 
made by the United States Govern- 
ment, facing the entrance to Chesa- 
peake Bay between Cape Charles and 
Cape Henry. 

John Smith appreciated womankind 
and paid them high tribute and due 
deference on all occasions, therefore it 
is especially appropriate and befitting 
that the women of America should 
take the initiative steps and if possible 
the entire charge of this patriotic 

In his "Memoirs" descriptive of 
Virginia and New England, he dedi- 
cates his book to the Duchess of Rich- 
mond and Gordon, and gracefully at- 
tributes all his success and comforts 
inJife_to_the ladies in the following 

quaint and beautiful language : "Yea, 
my comfort is that heretofore honora- 
ble and vertuos ladies and comparable 
but amongst themselves, have offered 
me rescue and protection in my 
greatest dangers; even in foraigne 

"The beauteous Lady Tragabizanda, 
when I was a slave to the Turks, did 
all she could to secure me. 

"When I overcame the Bashaw of 



To the living Memory of his Deceased Friend 

Sometime Governor of Virginia and Admiral 

of New England 

Who Departed this Life the 21st of June, 1631 

Accordiamu* vincere est vivere 

Here lies one conquered that hath conquered 

Subdued large territories and done things 
Which to the world impossible would seem 
But that the truth is held in more esteem. 
Shall I report his former services done 
In honor of his God and Christendon? 
How that he did divide from Pagans three 
Their heads and lives, types of his chivalry 
For which great service in that climate done 
Brave Sigismondus King of Hugarian 
Did give nim as a Coat of Anns to wear 
These conquered heads got by his sword and 


W dy'd 

But what avails his conquest now he lyes 
Interred in earth a prey to worms and flies 
O, may his soul in sweet Elysium sleep 
Until the keener that all souls doth keep 
Return to judgment, and that after thence 
With Angels he may have his recompence. 

Copied From Tablet in Saint Sepulchre's 
Church, London. 


tn smoke, 
a station 

A fao simile of this tablet is preserved in the Old 
Powder Horn at Williamsburg 

Kalbria in Tartaria, the Charitable 
Lady Alameta supplyed my neces- 

"In the utmost of many extremities 
that blessed Pokahontas, the great 
King's daughter of Virginia oft saved 
my life. 

"When I escaped the crueltie of 
Pirats and most furious storms a long 
time alone in a small boat a sea and 
driven ashore in France, the good lady 

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Madame Chanoyes bountifully assisted 

What is more fitting then than that 
the women of the present day should 
honor and perpetuate his memory? 

It is hoped and expected that the 
cooperation of every patriot in the land 
will be secured in thus doing honor 
to this great man, who at twenty-nine 
years of age had already served in the 
wars of Europe, been knighted for his 
achievements in Hungary and Tran- 
sylvania, and had been appointed by 
the London Company as one of the 
first Directors of the Virginia colony, 
which at that time embraced the entire 
coast of the United States, from Nova 
Scotia to South Carolina. 

He, as President of Virginia and 
Admiral of New England, to give him 
his bfficial titles, was one of the most 
remarkable characters in our entire 
history. As soldier, statesman, au- 
thor, geographer, poet and clear-headed 
practical English gentleman, he stands 

When Captain John Smith was made 
President of Virginia he commenced 
a new career to which his former thrill- 
ing adventures were only a most re- 
markable prelude; his whole life 
seemed to teem with most disastrous 
chances; "of moving accidents by flood 
and field; of hair breadth 'scapes i' 
the imminent deadly breach ; of being 
taken by the insolent foe and sold to 
slavery/. 1 Shakespeare might have 
taken him as his model for Othello, 
barring color and jealousy, for he, 
too, had the faculty of "telling a soft 
tale to win a lady's ear." 

From the time of his induction into 
office at Jamestown until a terrible 
accident from an explosion of gun- 
powder so disabled him as to render 
his return to England for medical treat- 
ment imperative, his life was full of 
arduous toil and fearful peril, often 
suffering acutely from wounds and 
fever which threatened his life; once 
being stung by a poisonous fish he was 
brought so near death that his friends 
digged his grave. 

In the meantime he had explored 
more than three thousand miles of 
strange country; he had been taken 
prisoner by Powhatan and his life 

saved by Pocahontas, who, by the way, 
had three names: Pocahontas, Amo- 
nati and Matoaka. 

While he was with the colony they 
never ceased to thrive and prosper, 
although they were not always grate- 
ful or even agreeable. They had great 
cause for rejoicing, for they learned to 
grow abundant crops; the neighboring 
Indians became friendly and brought 
voluntary contributions. New houses 
were built, and the general health 
was so good that only seven deaths 
occurred between September and May. 

He left the scene of his heroic toils 
and sufferings in September, 1609, 
never to return. There remained at 
Jamestown four hundred and ninety 
persons, well armed, well sheltered 
and well supplied, but such was the 
profligacy and want of proper leader- 
ship that by the beginning of winter 
the settlement was face to face with 
starvation. The Indians became hos- 
tile, pillaged and murdered and burned 
their houses ; disease added to desola- 
tion and cold and hunger completed 
the terrors of a winter which was long 
known as the Sferving Time. By 
March only sixty persons were alive 
and had not Sir Thomas Gates shortly 
after put in an appearance with 
supplies, not one would have been left 
to tell the tale. 

Doubtless a fate similar to this over- 
took the Roanoke colony and the first 
white child born in America, Virginia 

Vicissitudes still attended the colony 
under Gates' administration, and the 
settlers decided to leave forever a 
place which seemed to promise them 
only disaster and death. They were 
anxious to burn the town behind 
them, but Gates prevented this by 
being the last one to leave the island. 

They boarded the four small vessels 
and were well under way, nearing the 
mouth of the river, when they saw the 
ships of the good Lord Delaware. 
They were laden with emigrants and 
supplies, and this fact largely induced 
the colony to return to the island, 
which they reluctantly did after much 
persuasion by Lord Delaware. 

When they landed he knelt down 
and gave thanks, and before nightfall 

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fires were again kindled on the heartti- 
stones of the deserted village. The 
next day was spent in religious services, 
and this date stands out conspicuously 
as the first American Thanksgiving. It 
requires little stretch of the imagination 
to look in upon them feasting upon the 
good things brought by Lord Dela- 
ware, who doubtless was most thank- 
ful of all for having been in time to 
feed, comfort and save the settlement. 
Encouraged by his presence and great 
kindness, inspired with hope and with 
lighter hearts they began life again on 
a spot where only a few hours before 

Governor and Captain General caused 
it to be kept passing sweet and trim- 
med up with divers flowers. There 
was also a sexton belonging to it." 

After years of storms and tumult 
a royal government was established 
in Virginia, but in 1699 the se/it of 
government was moved to Williams- 
burg, seven miles away, at first called 
the Middle Plantation. Jamestown 
was abandoned on account of "ma- 
laria, mosquitoes, and because the 
air was serene and temperate and 
crystal springs burst from the dry 
and champaign soil" around Williams- 


they were preparing to burn their 
houses in a spirit of angry despair. 
Campbell's history of Virginia says : 
"Lord Delaware when Governor gave 
orders for repairing the church, which 
was eighty feet long and twenty -five 
feet broad. It was to have a chancel 
of cedar and communion table of black 
walnut, pews of cedar with handsome 
wide windows, to shut and open ac- 
cording to the weather, made of same 
wood, also a pulpit and a font hewed 
out hollow like a canoe. The church 
was to have two bells at the west end. " 
The same history says: "The building 
is to be very' light within and the I^ord 

burg. Old Jamestown is now de- 
serted, and has little to recall the 
life of toil and privation that fell to 
the lot of the first colonists on that 
sacred isle, for hallowed it will ever be 
in the eyes of all good Americans. 
England, too, appreciates the influence 
of this beginning of English coloniza- 
tion. An English company has ap- 
plied for a concession to erect at the 
Jamestown exposition next year a 
tower which will surpass the Eiffel 
tower in height. Ten thousand in- 
candescent lightswill be attached to its 
summit, and a mammoth searchlight 
will bathe the eountrv for miles round 

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with bright light. Although it is many 
miles from the sea it will be sighted 
by steamers plying the Atlantic. It 
will require six elevators to reach the 
top. These various "lifts'* will termi- 
nate in platforms or rooms, where it 
will be necessary to change cars. 
The company contemplates a scheme 
of amusements to be located on the 
several different floors, making the 
tower an exposition in itself. 

Jamestown is yet beautiful in its 
desolation; around the ruins climb 
the kindly vines and flowers, throwing 
a soft veil of greenery over ragged 
walls and mouldering tombs. The old 
church tower is draped "with ivy" 
round its ruins grey." 

"Thou art crumbling to the dust, old pile, 
Thou art hastening to thy fall; 
Around thee in thy loneliness 
Clings the ivy to the wall; 


The worshipers are scattered now, 

Who met before thy shrine, 
And silence reigns where anthems rose 

In days of auld lang syne." 

The Association for the Preservation 
of Virginia Antiquities has unearthed 
the foundation walls of the old James- 
town church and sheltered it in; the 
old tombs have been cleaned and re- 
stored as much as possible; the tomb 
of Lady Frances Berkeley stands half 
hidden by the grass under the shade 
of the trees. The "Knight's Tomb," 
too, has been unearthed and the dirt, 
mould and rust cleared away so that 
the emblems of pomp and power are 
plainly discernible, but no name. One 
is impressed with the perishableness 
of all things earthly. "The path of 
glory leads but to the grave. ,, 

The communion service of the 
church at Jamestown is now used at 
Old Bruton Church at 
Williamsburg, also the font 
from which Pocahontas is 
said to have been baptized. 
In addition to the James- 
town communion service 
Old Bruton has in use a 
gold and silver service 
known as the "Queen Anne 
Set' 1 and the "King George 
Service. 1 ' 

Perhaps the most inter- 
esting building in all Vir- 
ginia is the church last 
mentioned, having been in 
continuous use longer than 
any Episcopal edifice in 
America. It is closely as- 
sociated with Virginia's 
early history. Through its 
ancient tower entrance 
passed the court proces- 
sions of Colonial days; the 
governors with emblazoned 
emblems betokening the 
authority and majesty of 
England's kings and queens ; 
the Council of State, whose 
names will live forever in 
our nations history, and 
the members of the House 
of Burgesses, the defenders 
of the liberties of the' peo- 
ple. Here sat the men 
who first saw the vision 

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of a great, free 
republic. James 
Monroe, Thomas 
Jefferson, John 
Tyler and Chief 
Justice Marshall 
worshiped here, 
while students of 
William and Mary 
College; Patrick 
Henry while a 
member of the 
House and gov- 
ernor of Virginia; 
and the immortal 
Washington, while 
seeking to win 
the hand of beau- 
tiful Martha Cus- 

Here have min- 
istered the faith- 
ful servants of the Most High. It is 
supposed that the name Bruton was 
given in honor of those who came from 
Bruton Parish, England. Among 
them were: Sir Thomas Ludwell, 
whose toiHb is at the entrance door 
of the cliurch; Sir William Berke- 
ley, whoae widow Sir Philip Lud- 
well martied; and the first rector, 
Rev. Rowland Jones, whose father, 
Rowland Jones, Sr., was rector of 
Bruton Parish, England. 


The churchyard adjoins Palace 
Green, on which still stands the house 
once occupied by Gen. George Wash- 
ington as his headquarters. Around 
the church side by side with peers, 
warriors, statesmen, poets and schol- 
ars of the past "the rude forefathers 
of the hamlet sleep." A Confederate 
monument also stands in this beautiful 
city of the dead. The old church is 
to us an inheritance of the past as well 
as a monument to the future ; it belongs 
in a sense to the nation with whose 




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early history it is so intimately con- 
nected. A work of restoration to its 
ancient form, which has been changed 
and distorted, has been determined 
upon and it will be transmitted to 
posterity just as it was planned, built 
and used by our forefathers. The 
Colonial Capital Branch of the A. P. V. 
A. has undertaken the work of restor- 
ing the Colonial Governors' canopied 
pew. The King of England has given 
a handsome Bible and the President 
of the United States has presented a 
lectern on which to rest the King's 
Bible. The pulpit will be the gift of 
the American bishops, and the Arch- 

bishop of Canterbury will hold a 
service there during the exposition. 

Among the buildings still standing 
in Williamsburg, which were used in 
Colonial times, is the Old Powder 
Horn. It is the property of the 
Colonial Capital Branch of the A. P. V. 
A. and is used by them as a museum 
for relics. Miss Lottie C. Garrett is 
directress of this Branch and lives 
in a Colonial home occupied by her 
family for several generations. 

The house in which the central 
figure of Mary Johnston's entertaining 
story, "Audrey," is said to have lived 
also stands on Palace Green. 



There's a wind wild and wayward, a mystic dream wind, 

That wanders at will far and near, 
And though rough be its message, it leaveth behind 

Its songs in the heart that can hear. 

'Tis the Vagabond God on his charger of air, 

That rides o'er the land and the sea, 
And his children they hear, and his children they dare, 

And burst their home bonds and are free. 

By the tale-telling seas and the dream-peopled towns, 

By green-bowered farms lying still, 
By the woods, and the plains, and the bare, lonely downs, 

This god bloweth onward at will. 

And his song like a bugle in morning rings clear, 

"Up, up, follow on, follow on!" 
By our side youth upstarts, "I am here, I am here!" 

And lo ! they march on with the dawn. 

R. C. Pitzer. 

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By A. W. Dimock 

Illustrated by Julian A. Dimock 

aboard if you 
want to go 
w r e c k i n g," 
said our host, 
the captain, as 
we stood on his 
wharf beside a 
schooner whose 
auxiliary en- 
gine was chug- 
chugging, while 
a n improvised 
crew took a 
lighter in tow, 
cast off lines and 
made the hal- 
yard blocks sing 
as they ran up 
the sails. 

The camera 
man and the 
writer stepped 
across the wid- 
ening gap be- 
tween the dock 
and the schoon- 
er and were fol- 
lowed by the 
captain, who was 
the last man to 
come aboard as the wharf slid from us. 

"Cap'n Bill," as even the babies 
called him, was merchant, shipbuilder 
and hotel-keeper, the Pooh-Bah of the 
island which he owned and the bay 
which bore his name, but he responded 
to the call of 4 'wrack" as instinctively 
as the canal boatman drops to the 
cry of "low bridge." The native of 
the coast or keys of south Florida may 
incidentally ship oranges or smuggle 
rum, cultivate chickens or egg plant, 
grow grape fruit or raise cane, but his 
forbears tied lanterns to the horns of 
cows and built signal fires where they 


would do the 
most good, and 
he is by inheri- 
tance and tradi- 
tion a wrecker. 
As the schooner 
nosed out the 
narrow channel 
to the pass, we 
stood beside the 
captain, whose 
hand was upon 
the wheel but 
whose manner 
did not invite 
He called down 
the companion 

"John, what's 
the matter with 
your engine?" 

4 'It's doing the 
best it can, sir." 
"Well, you 
find a way to 
make it do bet- 

John made it 
do so much bet- 
ter that the 
wrinkles beneath the captain's eyes 
deepened into a half smile as we 
headed down the coast, and his gaze 
wandered incessantly around the hori- 
zon until, as we rounded a point of 
the beach, it rested upon a schooner 
lying stranded with decks awash. 
There was no other craft in sight and 
the face the captain turned upon us 
was cheerful and his voice vibrant as 
he said: "The wrecker's motto is 'Get 
there first,' and we are first." 

The tide was low as we neared the 
wreck and with each wave our schoon- 
er marked time on the bottom. 

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"Shall I stop her?" came up from 
the engine room. 

"Keep her going/' said the captain 
at the wheel. 

"But she's striking— hard." 

"Keep her going." 

The schooner was brought alongside 
the wreck, lashed to it fore and aft, 
fenders rigged and the engine started, 
but the wreck didn't. 

Her anchor was carried out and the 
power of the windlass added to the 
traction of the engine, but the wreck 
stood like the — 
Prudential Insur- 
ance Company. 
All hands joined 
in an attempt to 
bail and pump the 
water from the 
hold of the sunken 
craft, but fine shell 
coming through the 
pump showed that 
they would have 
to pump out the 
Gulf of Mexico. 
The attempt to 
save the boat was 
temporarily aban- 
doned and the crew 
turned loose on the 
cargo, which con- 
sisted of shingles, 

a large proportion of which 
were soon transferred to 
the wrecking schooner. 
Among the workers were 
the captain of the wrecked 
craft and its crew, which 
consisted of one small negro 
boy. They had been hired 
by our captain to help wreck 
the boat and cargo which 
they had abandoned, while 
yet their clothing was wet 
from a long swim to the 
beach and a struggle with 
the breakers. 

In the cabin and hold 

shingles had been packed 

so tightly that some one 

must work under water to 

release them. "You go," 

said the wrecker captain 

to the captain who had 

been wrecked. 

"I wouldn't go down there fer the 

Almighty, let atone the owner of those 


"Then you," to the wrecked crew. 
"Ise had 'miff o' dat cabin," said 
the little darky as he cheerfully went 
overboard to rescue a bundle of 
shingles that had been washed from 
the deck and was floating away. 

"It's up to you," said the captain 

to his own man-of-all-work, a negro. 

"Cap'n, I done 'fraid to get unner 

dat deck in waterwid all 'em shingles." 


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"Then see me go, if 
you're all afraid. ' ' And the 
captain himself was at work 
beneath the water and un- 
der the deck. When he 
came out the negro took 
his place, and alternate- 
ly dived and dislodged 
bundles, and came to the 
surface and sputtered, while 
the captain tossed the shin- 
gles aboard his own boat 
and as an occasional rat 
swam out knocked it high 
in air and overboard, say- 
ing "that has to be done 
in a hurry — those fellows 
can bite." 



11 Can't you take 
that boy's picture 
as he goes under?" 
said the captain to 
the camera man, 
as the negro went 
down for more 
shingles. "I want 
to show the au- 
thorities how diffi- 
cult it was to 
wreck this cargo. 
It would affect my 

When the cargo 
had been captured 
the mainsail was 
cut loose from the 
mast and with 
boom and gaff 

hoisted aboard the wreck- 
ing boat, while the lesser 
sails and rigging were load- 
ed upon the lighter. 

As the sun went down 
our boat was homeward 
bound, a thousand dollars 
of treasure trove piled 
upon its decks and stowed 
in its hold. The crew were 
talking in low tones of the 
probable salvage and of the 
luck of the captain by 
whose side I stood as the 
stars came out, and his 
hand resting carelessly on 
the wheel moved it idly to 


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2 7 8 



and fro, holding the boat with a sailor's 
instinct in the narrow, tortuous chan- 
nel, while he talked and looked at me. 

"You know how to control your 
subjects," said I. ''Nothing but your 
going in the water yourself would have 
sent that negro down in that hold." 

"Yes, I know how to control him, 
all right. I promised him a bottle of 
rum if he would go in. That's what 
fetched him." 

"Why didn't that captain hold on 

to his boat and 
hire you or some- 
body else for $40 
or $50 to do just 
what you are 
getting ten times 
that sum for?" 

"That's just 
what he ought to 
have done, but it 
wasn't my business 
to teach him. 
Wrecking is a lot- 
tery. You work 
harder to get a dol- 
lar # without earn- 
ing* it than you 
would to earn five 
legitimately. I've 
made a little stake 
to-day, but shall 
probably waste the most of it trying 
to get that old tub afloat. I know I 
ought to let it alone but I shall go 
down there and strain and bruise my 
own good boats and waste time and 
money until I pull the old wreck to 
pieces or until a nor'wester breaks 
it up." 

"Did you ever do any really un- 
profitable wrecking?" 

"Often. Right near here I rescued 
a lot of western fellows who built a 


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box and thought 
it was a boat. The 
weather was fine 
and they used to 
pull their boat up 
to the beach and 
camp on shore 
every night. Then 
one day it wasn't 
fine and they were 
in trouble. I got 
swamped myself 
helping them, but 
wouldn't take a 
dollar from them. 
I didn't want to 
rob a lunatic asy- 

44 Were you ever 
on the other side 
of the fence with 

wreckers in possession of one of your 

"Yes, they got hold of the Speed- 
well and had me dead to rights for 
about $2,000, but I bluffed them off 
and then gave them a hundred dol- 
lars just out of good feeling. They 
were niggers." 


The next morning we returned to the 
wreck, which had worked itself into the 
sand during the night, and the captain, 
after rescuing a few bundles of shingles 
which had worked out during the 
night, sent the crew of the wreck aloft 
to make fast to the mast head a line 
which was carried to the windlass, and 


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the wreck hove down until her top- 
mast was afoul of our rigging. A 
sailor with a hatchet went aloft and 
cut away the topmast, tackle was 
made fast to both masts and the wreck 
rolled over on her side. The few holes 
in her bottom were plugged as far as 
possible, and when she had been 
straightened up all hands went to 
work with pump and buckets and 
pumped and baled vigorously for ten 
minutesTwithout materially lowering 

the water in the 
schooner's hold. 

For a few days 
the wind was high, 
the waves washed 
the wreck close to 
the beach and 
work upon it was 
impossible. As soon 
as the weather per- 
mitted the captain, 
yielding to the 
malevolent impulse 
which he had de- 
scribed as control- 
ling him, took to 
the wreck two 
schooners, provided 
with heavy spars 
and chains. A 
schooner was 
placed on each side of the wreck, and 
chains around its bow and stern 
made fast to spars laid across the 
three boats. Long levers, aided by 
tackle, turned the spars and winding 
up the chains lifted the wreck and de- 
pressed the other schooners. The ar- 
rangement was called a Spanish wind- 
lass and proved about as effective as a 
Spanish battleship. The schoonerswere 
bruised and strained, levers and chains 
broken and time and again the partly 


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lifted wreck went to the bottom, until "The United States marshal of this 

after working a day and a night the district now, but he must sell all the 

captain yielded, and with a wornout property at auction, pay me my share, 

crew asleep on deck, sailed for home, and what is left over expenses, goes to 

He told me the boat was not worth the original owners.' ' 

the trouble he had taken to save her "Who was the owner of the 

but that she had been sold at a big boat?" 

price in Havana and he reckoned the "He happens to have been that 

Providence that looked after children same United States marshal. ,, 

and fools was taking care of the man "Then he is the ex-owner and the 

who had bought, but not paid for her. ex-officio owner, but what is he likely 

"Who is the owner of the boat and to recover?" 

cargo?" "His fees," said the captain. 


I see a jolly carpenter, he lives I know not where; 

He comes and goes right merrily and seems as free as air; 

He wears a suit of check, this jaunty little chap, 

And on his head, quite strange to say, he wears a scarlet cap. 

I hear his busy hammer on this side and on that ; 

He cannot pass my house without a "rat-tat-tat!" t 

Maybe he's an anarchist — so wickedly alert ; 
Perhaps he's only trying with the parlor maid to flirt ; 
There are many other workmen, but he's evidently boss; 
He issues orders often quite querulous and cross. 
I hear his busy hammer on this side and on that; 
He cannot pass my house without a "rat-tat-tat!" 

Maybe he's a thief, a burglar in disguise ; 

He's bored a hole quite slyly and in it he peeps and spies ; 

He's a very saucy fellow and if he does not stop 

I'll telephone directly for assistance from the cop. 

I hear his busy hammer on this side and on that ; 

He cannot pass my house without a "rat-tat-tat!" 

He's such a careless chap, he forgets to doff his cap; 
And he does not care, not he, when he breaks my needed nap ; 
But he looks so gay and pretty, it would seem almost a pity 
To send this jolly carpenter to the wild and wicked city. 
And I'd miss his busy hammer on this side and on that; 
He cannot Jpass my house without ^"rat-tat-tat!" 

Margerie Beardsley. 

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John Marshall Harlan, doyen of 
associate justices of Supreme Court, 
is a Kentuckian and one who does 
his native State honor in every way. 

lin, is largely engaged in charitable, as 
well as social activities. One of their 
sons, Rev. Dr. Richard Harlan, is 
president of Lake Forest College, near 
Chicago ; two others, James S. and John 
Maynard Harlan are prominent law- 
yers in Chicago. 

The late Sir George Williams, presi- 
dent of the International Council of 
the Young Men's Christian Associa- 
tion, has been succeeded by Lord 
Kinnaird, a Scotch peer, who has been 
for many years actively engaged in 
the work of forwarding the cause of 
Christianity all over the world. 
Scarcely any philanthropic or Christian 
work in England can be named in 
which Lord Kinnaird has not taken a 
leading part. A graduate of Trinity 


Graduated at Center College at "the 
age of seventeen, Mr. Harlan took a 
law course at Transylvania Univer- 
sity, which seat of learning has 
nourished a large proportion of Ken- 
tucky's eminent men. His first prac- 
tice was at Frankfort but later he re- 
moved to Louisville and became At- 
torney-General of the State. He was 
three times nominated for governor 
and has served on many commissions 
of national importance, notablv the 
Louisiana Commission and the Ber- 
ing Sea Tribunal. Mr. Harlan was 
offered the United States Attorney- 
Generalship during President Hayes' 
administration, but declined it, ac- 
cepting the appointment to the Su- 
preme Bench in 1877. 

Justice Harlan, as befits the typical 
Kentuckian, is considerably over six 
feet in height, is genial and polished 
in manner and delights in the exercise 
of lavish hospitality. His wife, who 
is the daughter of Judge John Shank- 


College, Cambridge/ Lord Kinnaird 
is also a man of extensive travel. In 
Indiajhe spent several years in the 
investigation and enlarging of the 

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missionary work among the Hindu 
women. In England, as has been 
stated before, he is an active and sub- 
stantial supporter of all classes of 
missionary and philanthropic work. 

marked impetus under his vigorous, 
alert management. On his country 
estate in Scotland he has introduced 
modern water and sanitary systems, 
maintaining a model reading room, 

Treasurer Yale University 

Lord Kinnaird is passionately fond 
of athletics. As a lad he was captain of 
his football team at Eton, and was 
a famous cricketer at Cambridge. 
He believes in the practical value of 
athletics and it is certain that the 
work of the Y. M. C. A. will receive a 

club room and hospital at his own 

Mr. Thomas Lee McClung, the treas- 
urer of Yale University, is the son of 
Frank H. McClung, Esq., of Knoxville, 
Tenn., and a relative of Chief Justice 

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John Marshall, of the United States 
Supreme Court. Although a very 
young man for the responsible position 
he holds, being only thirty-six years 
old, Mr. McClung brought to his work, 
when appointed in 1904, a varied ex- 
perience, having held a number of ad- 
ministrative offices since his gradua- 
tion from Yale in 1892. During his 
college career Mr. McClung was a class 

tinguished for his high executive abili- 
ty and he has shown an equal capacity 
in ,the administration of Yale's fi- 

Birmingham, Ala 

leader, being chairman of the Prome- 
nade Committee in his juoior year and 
captain of the football team in his 
senior year. A period of travel fol- 
lowed his graduation, and afterwards 
he was made paymaster of the St. Paul 
and Duluth Railway, leaving this to 
take charge of the Southern's traffic 
west of the Alleghanies, his head- 
quarters being in Memphis. As a 
railroad officer Mr. McClung was dis- 

The First National Bank of Birming- 
ham has for many years devoted par- 
ticular attention to the cotton busi- 
ness, handling almost one-eighth of 
the entire cotton output of the State. 
Mr. W. P. G. Harding, the president 
of this bank, born in Greene County, 
1864, graduating with the degree of 
A.M. from the University of Alabama 
in 1 88 1, coming to Birmingham as 
assistant cashier and becoming cashier 
of the Berney National Bank, which 
he left in 1896 to assume the vice 
presidency of the First National, to 
whose presidency he succeeded in 
1902, has made a life study of the 
possibilities, the advantages and the 
protection of cotton production. At 
the convention of Southern Cotton 
Growers held at New Orleans in Janu- 
ary last, Mr. Harding delivered an able 
and impressive address on these lines. 
Mr. Harding advocates the creation 
of a general warehouse and warrant 
company, with capital and charter 
sufficiently adequate to allow it to 
transact all branches of the guaranty 
business made necessary by the re- 
ceipts of the local warehouse com- 
panies to be established under its 
supervision. This plan would estab- 
lish a chain of warehouses throughout 
the cotton States, wherein the planters 
could store their cotton and receive 
first-class collateral in return; it would 
have the further advantage of limiting 
the fluctuation of prices during the 
season. Mr. Harding's views were 
heartily endorsed by the delegates 
present, and have been highly com- 
mended by the press in the cotton 
States, and steps toward their adop- 
tion are warmly advocated by both 
the farmers and the bankers of the 

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By Waldon Fawcett 

^HE Jamestown Expo- 
sition project is prov- 
ing beneficially influ- 
ential in directing at- 
tention to many 
places and objects of 
national historical in- 
terest in Virginia and 
% the South, but as- 
% suredly one of the 
Lr most praiseworthy 
movements for which it is in part re- 
sponsible is that looking to the secur- 
ing for a national memorial the 
mansion and estate of Monticello, the 
famous Virginia home of the author 
of the Declaration of Independence. 
Next to Mount Vernon the classic 
mansion designed and built by Thomas 
Jefferson is undoubtedly the most his- 
toric and most interesting private 
habitation in America. Moreover 
Monticello stands to-day in a perfect 

state of preservation — the finest re- 
maining example of the old Southern 
plantation manor houses of the Co- 
lonial period. 

Thomas Jefferson's noble country 
seat, which long ranked as the most 
imposing in Virginia, is situated in the 
central part of the Old Dominion in 
the broken and picturesque Piedmont 
region and* about three miles distant 
from the quaint little city of Char- 
lottesville, the seat of the University 
of Virginia, founded by Jefferson. 
From his father Jefferson inherited 
some 1,900 acres of land, valued 
at the time at little more than 
two dollars per acre, although it 
ranked as among the best land in the 
South. To this as a nucleus he made 
extensive additions by purchase, and 
through his marriage, until in 1774 his 
holdings exceeded 5,000 acres. Only 
a portion of this land was under culti- 

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vation, but it netted the owner an 
income of more than $2,000, which was 
a welcome addition to the financial 
returns from his law practice. 

While yet a young man and some 
time ere he came into his inheritance 
Jefferson chose one of the boldest 
mountains in the estate as the site of 
his future home. This cone-shaped 
eminence, which the statesman named 
Monticello, the Italian for "little 
mountain," is nearly six hundred feet 

and direction, is in the form of the 
letter E, the wings opening westward, 
while to the north and south of the 
mansion proper are walks or prome- 
nades, supported by structures of 
masonry, in which are the servants' 
quarters and storage rooms. These 
masonry wings are very similar to 
those constructed at the Presidential 
Mansion at Washington, when the 
White House was recently restored in 
accordance with the original plans, 


in height, and slopes eastward to the 
Rivanna River, more than a mile 
distant. Upon the crest of the emi- 
nence Jefferson leveled a tract of 
several acres as a building site. The 
view from this vantage point, embrac- 
ing twelve counties in Virginia and 
rimmed by a panorama of the Blue 
Ridge Mountains, forming a semi- 
circle one hundred and fifty miles in 
extent, is unsurpassed on this conti- 
nent, if not indeed in the world. 

The mansion which Thomas Jeffer- 
son himself designed, and which was 
built under his personal supervision 

which were formulated in accordance 
with the suggestions of Jefferson. 

Monticello mansion is of the Doric 
order of Grecian architecture, with 
heavy cornices and massive balus- 
trades. The interior is in the Ionic 
style. The front hall recedes six feet 
within the wall of the building, and a 
portico projects about twenty-five feet, 
with stone pillars and steps. On the 
edge of the lawn overlooking the valley 
and separated by some distance from 
the house, with which it is, however, 
connected by one of the walks pre- 
viously mentioned, is the brick build- 

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ing used by Jefferson as an office and 

The entire construction at Monti- 
cello, it may be explained, is of brick 
and stone, although the bricks were 
not imported from England as in the 
case of many of the old Virginia man- 
sions, but were made on the ground by 
the slaves, of whom Jefferson possessed 
several hundred. The house in which 

The interior of the mansion is quite 
as imposing as its exterior aspect. 
The most impressive room is the great 
hall, which contains nearly one thou- 
sand square feet of floor space and 
extends to the full height of the build- 
ing, with a music gallery under the 
ceiling. The library, which sheltered the 
major portion of Jefferson's famous col- 
lection of 13,000 rare books and manu- 


the Sage of Monticello took such pride 
was thirty- two years in buildings hav- 
ing been commenced in 1770 and com- 
pleted in 1802. Much of the wood- 
work is mahogany, and the satin- 
wood and rosewood floor in one room 
cost $2,000, yet according to the 
account books of the owner the man- 
sion involved an actual cash outlay 
of less than $8,000. Even the nails 
used were made on the place by the 
slaves, and the ruins of the nail factory 
which Jefferson established are yet 
to be seen on the estate 

scripts, is, naturally, of great interest 
to present-day visitors, as is also the 
bedroom on the first floor where 
Jefferson died. 

The salon is one of the "show 
places" of this mansion famed as the 
scene of as lavish hospitality as the 
South has ever known, and so likewise 
is the spacious dining room, where as 
many as fifty house guests frequently 
joined Jefferson at the evening meal. 
Feminine visitors are always attracted 
to the dainty tea room with its ex- 
quisite white marble mantel. Adjoin- 

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ing this apartment but connected with 
it by glass doors is a private council 
chamber, which was frequently used 
by Jefferson for confidential confer- 

It is a matter for congratulation on 
the part of all citizens of the Republic 
that Monticello has been preserved m 
almost the identical condition in which 
it was left by the original proprietor 
After the death of Jefferson the estate 
was sold for the sum of $10,000 to 
Commodore Levy, a retired officer of 
the United States Navy, and from him 
descended to his son, the present 
owner, Jefferson M. Levy, a lawyer 

and ex-congressman, whose home is 
in the metropolis. As is the case of 
Mount Vernon there is added cause 
for making of Monticello a public patri- 
otic shrine by reason of the fact that 
this estate holds not only the earthly 
home but also the grave of the author 
of the Declaration of Independence. 
Over this grave is the stately monu- 
ment erected by the Congress of the 
United States and bearing the in- 
scription prepared by Jefferson, which 
reads: "Author of the Declaration of 
Independence, of the Statute of Vir- 
ginia for Religious Freedom, and Fath- 
er of the University of Virginia.' ' 


O Coquetry! Thou art a bud 

Which shows to ardent glance 
Pale hints of beauty yet unclosed 

A vague, half-blown romance! 

But Love! Thou art the Rose of June, 

The glowing, full-bloom flower; 
Thy fragrance makes the path of Life 

A fair Arcadian bower! 

Ethel Morrison Lackey. 

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By Thornwell Jacobs 


Ervin McArthur, son of "poor whites" in 
Dtmvegan, North CaroHna, nicknamed by 
his schoolmates "Satan" on account of his 
ungovernable temper, is the boyish sweet- 
heart of Helen Preston, daughter of an 
aristocratic family. As they grow up Colonel 
Preston, disapproving of the intimacy, at- 
tempts to break it off by securing for Ervin 
a position on the Charleston Chronicle. 
Colonel Masters, the editor of the Chronicle, 
is a native of Sudbury, Massachusetts, who, 
coming to Charleston in his early youth, has 
become thoroughly identified with the place. 
He learns to like the clever mountain lad 
and advances .him rapidly in a social and a 
way. At a Christmas entertain- 

ment Ervin becomes acquainted with William 
T. Sherman and Braxton Bragg, two young 
lieutenants stationed at Fort Moultrie. 
A year later the act of secession is passed at 
Charleston, and McArthur, realizing that war 
is inevitable, begins to work on plans for an 
ironclad battery, an idea which had been 
tried to some extent by the French. De- 
ficient in ability for mechanical drawing, he 
finds Helen Brooks of great assistance and 
becomes interested in convincing her of the 

J'ustice of secession. This daughter of a 
Joston merchant and a Charleston lady is 
divided in her sympathies until the close 
association with Ervin and interest in his 
plans, throws the scale in his favor. 


War had come! 

The ironclad battery was made 
ready and the guns of Moultrie were 
cleared for action. In the morning, 
while it was still dark, the noise of 
the cannonading began. All Charles- 
ton came out to witness it In antici- 
pation of the event there had been 
those who had spent the whole sleep- 
less night on the wharves and the Bat- 
tery Promenade, and when the guns 
began their firing the streets poured 
out their multitudes. 

"It is a brave sight," a quiet, blue- 
eyed man said to Ins neighbor, as the 
red hot cannon-balls ricocheted from 
battery to battery. 

"Aye; it is the ironclad battery; see 
how it stands the fire!" 

"Who ever thought of such a novel 
thing T the first voice asked. 

"A young fellow at the Chronicle 
office, named McArthur. I hear the 

• Commenced in the April number 

general wants to make a captain of 

"See, sir, we hit them ! Their little 
mortars can't reach the city. We'll 
show them of what stuff (Charleston 
is made." The speaker's voice was 
low and soft, and his accent polished. 

"See the floating battery, sir! Our 
stone and brick forts are no longer 
able to stand the pounding of the 
modern cannon. They are making 
projectiles now weighing two hun- 
dred and even three hundred pounds, 
and our wooden ships are utterly use- 
less. Now, his idea was, in a word, 
to introduce iron instead of wood." 

"I see, I see; it is not bad at all. 
The Russians almost did it." 

"And he so constructed it that it 
would not sink. Then he went to 
work and sheathed it with iron, and 

"Exactly; the French ironclad gun- 
boats did some good work in the 
Black Sea in '50, but, so far as I 

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know, the principle has never been 
applied to land batteries, and nobody 
believes that it really is a success as 
applied to ships. No nation trusts 
the principle. But where did he get 
his iron ?" 

"Railroad iron, sir; and it does ad- 
mirably for the first trial. He con- 
structed the walls at an angle of about 
fifty -five degrees — so," and the 
speaker drew a line in the air for il- 

"Yes, yes," the gentle-voiced audi- 
tor mused, "if it does — why man, if 
it does, it is a revolution — a revo- 
lution, sir. The same principle might 
as well be applied to ships as to float- 
ing batteries." 

"Exactly, sir," McArthur's cham- 
pion replied, "and before this war is 
done, if it lasts any length at all, he 
says you will see iron boats fighting 
iron boats on the waters." 

"Do you know, I should not be sur- 
prised," the other said, touching his 
imperial thoughtfully; "it may be we 
are beginning it now — it may be — 
certainly it is worth watching. The 
only partial success of the French 
need not deter us. Deuced smart fel- 
low, that McArthur !" But he added 
under his breath: "And to think, the 
little peasant upstart did it!" 

Thus the city went wild with de- 
light, like one who stood on the Bat- 
tery promenade and watched the bril- 
liant panorama for a long while, who 
heard the word of the multitude about 
the ironclad battery off Cummings' 
Point, and the youth whose name was 
upon every tongue. Her eyes were 
brown and flashed back the light of 
the distant cannon as they strove in 
vain to distinguish some form near 
the novel engine of war. 

Her heart leaped at the memory 
of the evenings the young engineer 
had spent with her, explaining his 
ideas, encouraged by her ability to 
master the technical details, and fired 
by her enthusiasm. Some of the 
points she had hotly argued with him, 
and now and again he had yielded to 
her practical suggestions. Especially 
helpful was her skill in drawing, and 
the entire set of plans was the work of 
her hands. As she stood among her 

gaily chattering friends on the prom- 
enade her heart leaped exultingly at 
the thought of her secret share in the 
great achievement She pictured the 
surprise, the incredulity the people 
about her would show if they were 
told that the daring idea had been 
brought to fruition by a woman's 
help, and that woman the vivacious 
leader of the frivolous set. A swell- 
ing throb of pride filled her, not of 
gratification in the achievement, not 
of satisfaction in its public usefulness, 
but wholly and solely of exultation in 
her sense of nearness to the young in- 

And far out on Cummings' Point, 
behind the sheathed walls of the first 
ironclad fortification that the world 
had ever seen, a young highlander 
was standing, directing with his own 
hand the assault, listening for the 
crash of the cannon-balls on the slop- 
ing walls of his fortress and trying to 
draw as much heavy fire upon it as 
Sumter would give. At each lull in 
the firing his thoughts were on the 
mainland with the woman whose in- 
dividuality had first enthralled him, 
and whose wonderful mathematical 
gifts had aided him in perfecting his 
project Perhaps she was thinking of 
him at that very moment ; perhaps she 
would forget father and brother, and 
glory with him at the £reat victory 
which would soon be theirs. Perhaps 
— then he muttered something to him- 
self, for how could he care anything 
about this brown-eyed Helen when he 
was already pledged to the editor's 
blue-eyed daughter, far away in the 
shadow of the Attacoa? What a fool 
he was to let himself be drawn away 
from one who trusted him to one who 
played with men in society as boys 
would play with tops, casting them 
carelessly aside for other whims ! Be- 
sides, she was not prettier than the 
editor's daughter, and certainly not 
more true. In fact, he would write to 
Dunvegan to-morrow and tell his lit- 
tle sweetheart there about his work, 
and remain true to his promise at 

Hour after hour the guns roared 
back at one another, until the day was 
done and the night had come and 

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gone. Then the red hot shot wrought 
their will upon the fort and the be- 
sieged were powerless to stop the 
death-dealing rain. Fire broke out 
here and there simultaneously, and 
Captain Anderson, realizing the hope- 
lessness of his situation, hauled down 
his flag. To the waiting, jubilant 
crowds on the Charleston wharves 
this news was intoxicating. Amid 
cries and shouts of delight and fren- 
zied joy, a boat, containing General 
Beauregard and his staff, pushed off 
to receive the flag. Now, there was 
one Sam Tillett, who had once run the 
press at the Chronicle office, and he 
read daily the Chronicle's editorials 
on the march of events, till one day he 
felt that the time had come for him to 
join his country's forces. He was 
among those detailed to accompany 
the officers, and as the boat came back 
from the captured fort he was seen to 
bear the surrendered flag. Thus it 
was given to the Chronicle to receive 
the tost trophy of war. 

The night of the surrender Colonel 
Masters leaving his office had gone 
but a short distance on his way home 
when he saw a man whose head was 
bowed, and whose step was slow, as 
though he grieved. He knew him in 
an instant, and overtook him on the 

"Petigru," he said, "these are times 
flat require every man to define 
his position clearly. You were a good 
soldier in the War of 1812 ; your cap- 
tain told me so. Where are you 

The man whose hair had been 
Made and whose eyes had been un- 
dimmed, bowed his head upon his 
breast in silence, and the two walked 
on together without a word, till at 
last the broken-hearted jurist, lifting 
his head very slowly, made this reply : 

"Colonel Masters, I have seen the 
last happy day of my life." 

Then the colonel took his arm gen- 
tly and neither spoke until they came 
to the place where their ways parted. 
Then Mr. Petigru said, slowly and 

"I will tell you, colonel, what soon- 
er or later I must tell all. I love the 
Union— I could never bring myself 

to approve of secession. I believe I 
see farther than the men who formed 
the Constitutional Convention, and I 
have long accustomed myself to 
search the horizon for signs. Now 
the floodgates are opened and the 
waters are upon us, and they will 
sweep all before them — all that we 
have toiled and prayed and fought for 
for a hundred years. Colonel, the 
ni^ht has come ; I have lived too long; 
it is time I were asleep." 


"Read this letter," General Beau- 
regard said, abruptly, smoothing his 
little goatee. 

To General P. G. T. Beauregard, Commandant 
Confederate Forces, Charleston, S. C. 
Sir: This is to authorize you to offer on 
our account the sum of one hundred thou- 
sand dollars to any person who, by any 
means, shall succeed in raising the blockade 
now closing this port, and fifty thousand for 
the sinking of any one of the men-of-war 
blockading this port. Very truly yours, 
Jno. Frazibr & Co. 

"Now, Mr. McArthur, if you — " 

But the sentence was never com- 
pleted. Suddenly a deep, hoarse 
voice under the very window called 

"Fire! Fire!! Fire!!!" 

Turning to the window, the men 
looked out. There, in the east, al- 
ready giants in strength, the flames 
were springing upward, a strong 
northeast wind blowing the sparks 
and cinders before it. 

"Gentlemen," the colonel said, "this 
is bad. We must go to it at once." 

They hastened quickly to the scene, 
and were soon lost in the crowd that 
filled the streets, the multitude of 
faces lit up in the night with a ghastly 

flow from the burning buildings, 
teadily the fire gained headway and 
power. The wind blew as though it 
would cut its broad swath directly 
through the heart of the city. Soon 
those who stood in front were com- 
pelled to retreat in dismay, giving way 
before the westward march of the 

Ervin ran rapidly toward the fire, 
hoping to do his part in stifling it, but 
he quickly saw, as did the many, that 

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Charleston's only hope was the mercy 
of God. He soon separated from 
General Beauregard and Colonel 
Masters in the crowd. At a sudden 
turn of a corner he stood face-to-face 
with the flames, and could only watch 
them, silent and helpless, as they 
burned down his hopes. The great 
city that -had bared its breast to the 
storm had indeed received the full 
blows of the lightning. And he, in 
whose mind so many keen plans and 
brilliant inventions were taking form, 
must watch the heart of the city he 
loved waste away at the touch of the 
greedy flames — the city which would 
have given him power and opportuni- 
ty to do great things for the cause. 

"What does God mean ? What can 
he mean by so wild and awful a 
thing ?" he cried aloud in his despair, 
for he had remembered his prayers. 
"There are those who say that often 
man is as wise as God — they are 

He turned, and there, pressed close 
behind him in the crowd was Helen. 
Drawn thus instinctively together, 
side by side they watched the mighty 
masses of smoke rolling upward and 
southwestward and caught the gleam 
of the flames beneath, lighting the 
lower volumes. Suddenly a terrific 
crash shook the walls of the adjacent 
buildings. Simultaneously St An- 
drew's Hall, on Broad street, and Se- 
cession Hall, on Meeting street, had 
fallen. Soon, from the confused 
shouting of the crowds, the news was 
borne to them as they stood watching 
on the broad crossing before St. Mi- 
chael's, and the more superstitious 
among the crowds remembered that 
in one the ordinance of secession had 
been passed, and in the other signed 
with many cheers. 

Following immediately upon their 
collapse dense volumes of smoke 
leaped upward and myriads of sparks 
and burning fragments of timbers lit 
up the ominous masses, laughing ex- 
ultingly at the pale faces turned up- 
ward aghast. And then the wind, 
which had ever been Charleston's an- 
cient enemy, took up one gleaming 
flake and, fanning it to a glowing 
mass, bore it tnumphantly up and 

away, far over the heads of the spec- 
tators, toward the holy St Michael's. 
A thousand eyes watched it borne 
through the air and saw it strike the 
topmost pinnacle, swing round an 
instant and swaggering proudly from 
side to side, settle upon one of the 
towers and begin to eat its way down- 
ward. Then, indeed, men trembled, 
for St. Michael's was Charleston's 
pride, and some eyes were filled with 
hopeless tears, and some turned away, 
unable to watch the fire sink into the 
throat of its victim, and women cried 
that God had hid his face in anger. 
A great moan, which seemed born of 
deepest agony, could be heard even 
above the dull roar of the conflagra- 
tion, and an old, white-haired man, 
who stood at the edge of the crowd 
on Broad street, was scarcely able to 
support his trembling hands as he 
turned them heavenward. Already, 
too, the wind and the burning beam 
were doing their will, and the bright, 
blue tongues of flame could be seen 
laughing about the spire — laughing 
at a thousand hearts sick with fear, 
powerless with despair. 

But suddenly, above the roar, Mc- 
Arthur's voice could be' heard : 

"Look! look at the man climbing 
the tower! Oh, Holy God, he will 

They saw him then — those who 
could — a man, apparently an old man, 
already far up the first square of the 
towering spire. 

His hair was white, and he seemed 
to clamber unsteadily up the light- 
ning rod that led to the cruel ember. 
At times men held their breath as he 
swayed from side to side and his hands 
seemed to fail to grapple with the 
iron, and once the wind caught the 
long, black coat that he wore and his 
foot failed, and for a moment he hung 
there between heaven and earth, until 
the very prayers of the mighty crowd 
below (turned on the instant to a 
worshiping congregation) bore him 
upward and onward again. 

"Who is it?" one asked of another, 
and every man whose name was sug- 
gested counted himself a hero. "Is it 
the rector?" one questioned, who 
doubted if any other man could love 

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the church enough to die for it "They 
say it is the mayor/' was the whis- 
pered reply. At last men saw what 
they thought they never could see, 
for he had reached the blazing timber 
at last and caught it With his hands 
he choked the flames and threw it far 
out into the air. And then, with one 
foot upon an insulator and one hand 
upon the quivering lightning rod, he 
beat out the flames upon the spire, 
until the last spark died out and St 
Michael's was saved. The man who 
came slowly down from the steeple 
heard the shout of joy that went up 
from the hosts of people, and the full 
voices of thanksgiving, but he could 
not see some who knelt upon the side- 
walk and thanked God with deep 
searchings of heart that there had 
been found one who could save the 

As he slowly descended, the mass of 
spectators moved to meet him. Shoul- 
ders were made ready to bear him in 
triumph through the city, and the 
glad people were as happy as if each 
himself had done it. As they surged 
toward the hero tie was seen to sink 
in exhaustion to the ground, and lo, it 
was a negro — an old man — the 
Chronicle's Joe! 

"J ^ g°°d old Joe, is it you?" It 
was the rector's own voice that rose 
above them all. "You are a man. You 
deserve to be free !" 

"Sarvant, Marster," it was indeed 
the mellow tones of the slave, who, for 
two fortnights of years had been the 
Chronicle's newsboy. "Thunk I wus 
gone sho ! But dem bells dat I hears 
ev'ry day, Marster, I jes hatter save 
dem bells!" 

"Free him!" was said with a great 
shout, as of gladness. One reached 
over another to cast bills and notes 
and silver and gold into the hats that 
the leaders passed around, until he 
who counted said that enough and 
more was ready. Then some one who 
remembered the prayers from the 
street began to sing "Praise God from 
Whom All Blessings Flow," and the 
multitude sang it there until sobs 
drowned out the notes. 

McArthur turned to take Helen 
homeward and saw the lights of the 

great conflagration playing in the 
tears of her eyes. And it seemed to 
him as if all the rainbows broken 
since the days of Noah had been cast 
therein to be mended. For a moment 
he permitted himself the delightful 
sensation of dallying with danger. 
Since the evening when his daemon 
and his passion warred together in 
his brain he had never met her eyes 
in complete and unconscious frank- 
ness. He felt that it was dangerous 
to venture too near those fascinating 
depths, and, besides, he saw always 
lurking in their dark softness a ques- 
tion which he knew he could never 
answer. He knew he ought to tell 
her of Helen Preston, but the con- 
sciousness of that last painful inter- 
view was too close upon him, and in 
the unsettled state of public affairs he 
found it easy to absorb himself in 
other questions. 

"It was a noble deed," declared 
Helen, earnestly, as they walked along 
in the wake of Mrs. Corbin and the 
others. "It was worthy a knight of 
old — and reconciles me," she lowered 
her voice half timidly, "to my choice." 

"After all, Miss Helen," Ervin's 
tones took on a note of strained light- 
ness, "you are half a Southerner, so 
why shouldn't you sympathize with 
us? Look at Colonel Masters, now; 
his is a difficult situation, if you like. 
And there's your mother's, on the 
other hand. Her situation must be 

"Yes, poor mother, and poor Colo- 
nel Masters! They have both suf- 
fered and must suffer more. I won- 
der," she sighed, "if this war will 
bring happiness to any one." 

"I wish to heaven it was done with, 
and I with it," said Ervin, with so 
gloomy an air that Helen was fright- 
ened, and, calling to the others, soon 
had a general conversation passing 
among the members of the party. 


The war wore on and the passions 
of men gathered fury as they went. 
Great armies of men left the singing 
plow to follow the cursing cannon, 
and the Northern section drew a circle 

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of fire around the Southern, yet 
everywhere success seemed to attend 
the Stars and Bars, as with her tens 
she seemed able to drive back her 
enemy's hundreds. 

But there came a time when great 
ships came out of the North, sheathed 
in iron, and mounting guns of whose 
muzzles the world had never seen the 
like before, and Southern men 
watched their own invention come 
back to murder them. Against the 
mighty fleet of ironclads that watched 
her harbor the city had but two to 
array — the "Palmetto State" and the 

And one day in April the nine great 
iron monsters came to re-conquer 
Sumter. The battle raged, as battles 
do, till the little fort was buried in 
iron missiles. And yet her guns spoke 
death and the ironclads withdrew in 
defeat. For five days they lay at an- 
chor inside the bar as though they 
would know what make of enemy 
could be so dauntless. Now, in the 
fleet there had been one, the Keo- 
kuk, that had come too near the fort 
and had been disabled. All night long 
thereafter they had kept "her afloat, 
but in the rougher seas of the morn- 
ing she had sunk off Morris' Island, 
in eighteen feet of water, three hun- 
dred yards from the shore. As seen 
at low tide with the naked eye from 
Sumter, her two conical turrets barely 
rose above the water. In each was a 
gun to be coveted. 

Several evenings later Helen 
Brooks sat reading the New England 
papers sent her by her mother. A 
paragraph in one, from the corre- 
spondent on the war fleet caused her 
to slowly lower the paper, and, after 
a moment's thought, send a message 
to Ervin McArthur. The notice read: 

"An effort was made last night to 
blow up the Keokuk, by Captain 
Rodgers, but without success. She 
was found to be full of sand and it 
was impossible, at that time, to put 
the magazine of powder below her 
deck to blow her up. This morning 
an effort was made to fix on the raft 
with a torpedo attached to the bow of 
the Weehawken, but the sea was too 

rough and the effort was given up* 
At all events she is useless to the reb- 
els. She is filled with sand and will 
be broken up or buried after the first 
gale. The rebels cannot raise her, 
and she is covered by the guns of the 
blockading fleet, and will ever be be- 
yond their reach." 

They had a long conference over the 
oak table in Mrs. Corbin's living room, 
and it ended by McArthur walking 
down to the Hampton wharf. Drip- 
ping wet with salt spray, he came 
back early the next morning. 

"You were right," he said to her, 
admiringly; "those guns can be re- 

So they laid their plans and talked 
together for a long time of the glory 
that awaited him who should make 
a success of recovering them. Mc- 
Arthur thanked her in the name of 
the Confederacy for takingsuch an 
interest in all he did. The guns 
seemed as good as recovered while 
she was near. 

The next morning he went to the 
commanding general, but Beauregard 
shook his head. 

"You are wrong this time, McAr- 
thur. I have had my naval experts 
examine the wreck and they pro- 
nounce it impossible. They are unani- 
mous on that point." 

But somehow the inscrutable face 
of the man struck him favorably. 

"And, besides, they have been aban- 
doned by the Federal navy, and they 
would not abandon two eleven-inch 
Dahlgrens for mere laziness. No, 
sir, I reckon you are wrong this 

"Still, General, I suppose there's no 
harm in trying, is there?" 

"Why, no, sir; no harm except the 
waste of time and money. Besides, 
we have no men qualified to do such 
work," the general replied. 

"LaCoste and I can do it, sir." 

McArthur's smile sent General 
Beauregard's fears to the winds. 

"Who is LaCoste?" 

"He is a rigger, an excellent gun 
mounter. If you will give us the men 
we will bring you the guns." Ervin 
knew that he was talking as him who 

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putteth on the armor, rather than him 
who taketh it off, but positiveness 
must be met 

"Why, certainly, you may have the 
men," said the little general, inter- 
ested at last ; "but be careful, sir, you 
know the Yankees are only a short 
distance off, and a sortie from one of 
the ironclads could capture your 
whole party in a twinkling." 

"I will be careful, General." 

"And work as secretly as possi- 
ble. Sound carries far over the 

"I will, sir." 

"You will have to do it all at night, 
and how long will you have each 
night on it? Beauregard always 
tested his man. 

"She is so low, General, that we can 
only work at ebb-tide, for about two 
hours and a half each night, and then 
not at all if the water is rough." 

McArthur girded himself for the 
work, well knowing what it would 
mean to the city to have two guns 
whose equal was not in all the South, 
mounted on her batteries, and La- 
Coste gave heart and soul to the en- 
terprise. They went together, a lit- 
tle party of picked men, with crow- 
bars and chisels, and commenced their 
labors. But the sea was often heavy 
and the tops of the iron turrets slip- 
pery to the foot, and ere they had be- 
?un despair had come to watch them, 
till they labored on, night after 
night, in darkness and quiet Their 
little guard boat watched between 
them and the ironclads, and they muf- 
fled, as far as possible, the blows of 
their sledges. The salt spray dashed 
over them in plenty, and many a toil- 
er, slipping on the uncertain footing, 
fell headlong into the water. With 
imperfect tools great iron plates were 
cut off, for a hole must be made in 
the turret large enough for the mas- 
sive Dahlgrens to swing fairly out. 

"How much do they weigh, Mc- 
Arthur ?' Lacoste's voice asked, in a 

"Sixteen thousand pounds," he an- 
swered. "Each is nearly three feet 
in diameter at the breech and thirteen 
feet, five inches long. Can you cut 
through those bars to-morrow?" 

"Ah, man, it will take us a week 
longer to get them free I" They had 
been eight nights at it already. "If 
we could only have a light, a lantern 
— anything — we could do it in half 
the time," he added. 

But the men on the lookout grew 
more anxious night by night, as the 
boats from the blockaders seemed to 
come nearer and nearer. At last, one 
morning, about three o'clock, they 
came rowing swiftly in, crying in 
muffled tones: 

"Quick! quick! they're coming!" 

Then the party fled from the wreck 
and in hot haste sought the neighbor- 
ing shore, only pausing long enough 
on the beach to see if they were fol- 
lowed. But no enemy came down 
upon them, and so the silent forms 
crept back to their great black prey 
like the bats that fly in the night. 

At last the three strong girders 
were cut through and the great guns 
came into view. Then they laughed 
in their hearts for very gladness, and 
because they dared not speak with 
their lips. Their spirits rose as the 
crisis approached, and one night La- 
Coste said that the heavy brass cap- 
squares on the carriage had given way 
to his wrenches. The great ropes 
were passed through the cascabel and 
lashed around the breech and the men 
patted the very cords for joy. 

The next night was the crisis. The 
two little ironclads that McArthur 
called his own stood guard to cover 
retreat and prevent capture. The EH* 
wan bore the detachments to the 
wreck and an old lightship from 
Rattlesnake shoals was fitted with 
heavy, earnest-looking outriggers, to 
bear the many-tonned guns. On her 
prow were fifteen hundred sand bags, 
and her crew trembled with eager- 

When the party assembled for the 
starting a tall, slight youth enveloped 
in a long cape overcoat, with a huge 
pilot cap pulled low over his face, 
came forward from the shadows. "Is 
that you, Allen?" called Ervin, and, 
turning to the crew, he said: "Men, 
Lieutenant Rooks has been an in- 
valuable helper to me in planning this 
work — indeed, the first suggestion of 

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it came from him, but illness has pre- 
vented his joining us before. To- 
night we are glad to have him with 
us." In the darkness the men wel- 
comed him in cautious tones, and he 
took his seat in the stern by Ervin's 
side, the two conversing in whispers. 
.Reaching the sunken vessel, the 
work was taken up. Soon the heavy 
cannon was slung free and the orders 
came to hoist away. With muffled 
tones of repressed expectancy the 
men on the lightship drew away, and 
their comrades, waist deep in water 
in the turret, watched the great gun 
rise. First the heavy breech, then the 
muzzle, inch by inch, till suddenly 
there was a stop, and, grating against 
the iron roofing, the massive burden 
leaned and refused to be moved. The 
falls could lift no further. 

Then all hearts sank in despair, for 
the blade muzzle was still awash in 
the waters of the submerged turret 
below, and the workers looked re- 
proachfully at the blocks and tackle. 
The lookout on the east whispered 
that the enemy was coming. 

"We have failed, Lieutenant," re- 
marked McArthur dryly to the young 

*Not at all," he replied, in a forced, 
cracked, boy's voice. He rose to his 
feet. "Shift the deck load, lads. Han- 
dle the sand bags. Pass them to the 
stern — quick!" It was thought and 
said as an unconquerable man would 
do it 

The great gun again moved upward 
as the weight was shifted from prow 
to stern, and the men passed the sand 
bags dexterously from hand to hand. 
Hope rose again and despair skulked 
off in the darkness. Inch by inch the 
muzzle rose until it was free of the 
waves, until it was within a foot of 
the top of the turret, and then : 

"Lift the sand bags, boys ; one more 
and she is free!" 

"They are all lifted, sir," and yet 
she lacked a full foot. 

As the cup was dashed from their 
lips they felt another pang of dismay. 

The first faint streak of day lit up 
the far horizon. The Palmetto State 
and Qhxcora were coming in from 

their watch, and a voice from the 
transport Etiwan called: 

"Is all ready? We must go!" 

In a moment the men on the moni- 
tors could see them — see the great 
gun swinging in the air and would 
come and reap the reward of their 
brain, pluck and daring. Surely the 
battle had not been to the brave. 

Some one said: "Cut loose the 
ropes; let her fall." 

McArthur, standing on the slippery 
turret, was looking toward the east 
at the great steam frigate Ironsides 
that would soon swoop down upon 
them. And thinking of power, by some 
psychic law, his heart leaped four 
hundred miles to peace. He was in 
the little red church in under the oaks 
where the shadows gathered at noon- 
day, and all the old faces were in the 
pews about him, and they kept si- 
lent before their God. Only the 
white-haired man, whom all Dunve- 
gan loved, lifted his blue eyes to 

"God of our fathers !" How strange 
the young highlander's voice sounded 
over the wreck, but the tired men 
heard it and none laughed. 

"God of our fathers, we need thee !" 

The lips of the young engineer 
trembled as he heard that, and a tear 
trickled down his velvety cheek. He 
moved nearer to the speaker as if he 
had discovered some new chord in 
his soul at which he was well pleased. 
LaCoste saw the tears and muttered: 
"Pshaw, he is only a kid!" 

And then — it is history that is re- 
corded, go read it in the records — a 
wave came from the ocean, higher 
than all the rest, and it bore up the 
light ship with the heavy lifting tim- 
bers and the blocks leaped up for joy. 
The black muzzle, laughing as though 
it had been joking all the time came 
quickly over the detaining turret, and 
lo, in the moment of despair the prize 
was theirs ! 

So they sailed into the harbor and 
gave good, loud cheers when they 
were safe under the guns of Sumter, 
and in the early morning light they 
brought back their trophies to the 
city. Ere they landed Captain Mc- 

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Arthur stepped boldly to the side of 
the quiet engineer and said: 

"Men, here is the man who did it — 
suggested it at the beginning, saved 
it at the end. I propose three cheers 
for him. Three cheers for Lieut Al- 
len Rooks!" 

They gave them there on the wharf 
with such hearty good will that more 
than one nervous woman rushed to 
the window for fear of the Yankees. 

The engineer and the captain 
walked arm in arm up Legare street 
and stopped at Mrs. Corbin's home. 

It was early morning and the quaint 
vendors of the city were crying their 
goods. The delicate gray light en- 
livened the somber colors of wall and 
doorway. On this shaded street, 
where even the slaves slept late, all 
was quiet still. It was an hour when 
whole chapters would be skipped in 
the history of a man's love. 

She stood below him on the door- 
step, looking at him admiringly with 
her bright, brown eyes, from which 
the blue glasses had been removed. 

He was talking in eager tones, and 
she drank in every word with ready 
sympathy. He took both her hands in 
his, and once more he seemed to him- 
self to be borne on swift wings along 
the bright road to success. "Helen, 
Helen! he cried exultingly, "we 
have won ! we have won !" 

"You have won, Ervin. To have 
had even a small share in the work 
you have done is a prize many a man 
would have grasped for eagerly. It 
must be yours, not mine," she added 
softly, turning away as if to enter the 

Ervin saw that her heart was full. 
How much more his own ! Tenderly 
re-possessing himself of her hands, 
he whispered: 

"I'm going to change your name 
for you again to-night. 

"Am I to lose my lieutenantship?" 

"Yes, the title must go, but maybe 
the rank will be higher." 

With every pulse throbbing, he bent 
toward her. Helen felt her whole 
soul go out to him, yet, with a desper- 
ate instinct, which strove against sur- 
render, she pulled away. Curiously 
enough, she noted his damp seaman's 

clothes. She watched his pupils 
growing until they were scarcely dis- 
tinguishable from the iris, and no- 
ticed that though no feature of his 
face moved, his nostrils dilated pas- 
sionately. She could feel the twitch- 
ing of his fingers, too, and in a tone 
which she tried to make ordinary, but 
whose tremor betrayed her soul, she 
parried him thus : 

"One of the pigeons was nearly 

"Pigeons !" he let go her hand sud- 
denly and a quick pallor overspread 
his impassive face. 

"Yes; there were three of them. I 
was at Mrs. Adams' yesterday and 
she had put a strange one with your 
two and they were fighting. We tried 
to stop them, but one of them got 

"Which was he? One of mine — 
the blue one or the white?" 

"It was a dark blue one, with blade 
bands. You were cruel to keep them 
caged like that" 

With a sigh of relief he said : 

"If that were my only cruelty, 
Helen, you were more cruel than I!" 

She did not understand that, unless 
it meant that she should not have 
stopped him when he was about to 
tell her all. 

He went home slowly that morning 
and sat for a long time holding his 
cigar in one hand and the match in 
the other. 

"Why," he mused, "why should her 
face come before me always when I 
am absorbed in Helen Brooks? 
Her little face, with pursed lips 
daintily saying 'Dare you/ and her 
eyes bluer than larkspur. Oh, Helen, 
little Helen! Your trust makes 
me ashamed of my faithlessness! 
Helen Brooks is a lovely woman, 
and, what is more dangerous, grows 
more lovely every time I see her. I've 
seen her proud eyes melt into pas- 
sionate tenderness, her erect loveli- 
ness soften into bewitching languor 
— ah, she is a woman and my mate!" 
He walked to the window and, lean- 
ing out, drew in the air in long 
breaths. In the bright morning light 
everything looked serenely effulgent 
A delivery cart rattled up to the gate. 

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Its sides were labeled: "Herman 
Brothers." As his eye fell upon it 
Ervin recalled some teasing allusions 
to Professor Herman, of Harvard, 
which he had heard Mrs. Corbin 
make to Helen. Immediately black 
jealousy enveloped him. His hand 
twitched and his throat ached as it 
had been wont to do when Henry Bai- 
ley had taken the maid of Sunahlee 
for a ride in Dunvegan days. His ef- 
forts, his achievements, his hopes 
were all forgotten. A long time he 
leaned, staring immovably out of the 
window. At length, stiff and wearied 
beyond measure with the conflict in 
his thoughts, he slowly drew himself 
in and, dropping on the bed, asked 
himself: "Why not go back to Sun- 
ahlee? I've written no letter for 
weeks, but the blue pigeon will soon 
be there." A pang of intensest pain 
shot through him as he pictured the 
pigeon's arrival. 

At the suggestion of a sudden 
thought he went down to the fly net 
Mrs. Adams had made for him. In 
his own way he would show her what 
he thought of her intermeddling, and 
would also avert a greater danger. 
Sure enough, the blue bird was gone, 
but the dragoon was still there. He 
caught it roughly, and with his pen- 
knife cut both the primaries and sec- 
ondaries of one of its wings. At the 
sight of the sharp blade among the 
feathers the old frenzy came over 
him. In lightning flashes his mind 
formed the desire to slash the skin 
into strips, to tear the quivering, 
bleeding flesh from the tiny bones and 
crush the bones to a powder. Beat- 
ing the air blindly through the crim- 
son mist that lay thickly before his 
eyes he fought the daemon and exor- 
cised it. The wounded bird fell from 
his nerveless hand and Mrs. Adams, 
appearing at this moment, inquired : 

"What has happened to the dra- 
goon, Mr. McArthur?" 

"Madam," was the cold reply, as, 
still shuddering violently he turned 
his head away. "Since you have un- 
dertaken to dispose of the other one, 
please kill and eat this one." 

She began to apologize at once. 

"Say no more, Mrs. Adams, but 

eat the bird and get it out of my 

He glared so fiercely at the suffer- 
ing pigeon that the good lady thought 
he must be ill, and wrapping the bird 
in her apron resolved to make a pet of 
it As Ervin turned to leave her, she 
saw him stagger and sink gently to 
the ground. For the second time in 
his hfe he had fainted. 



Around the curves behind the big 
eastern hill that delayed each sunrise 
on Dunvegan the pompous little en- 
gine, with its ruffed Elizabethan col- 
lar, came puffing away, and Tom Der- 
rick, who pulled the whistle, gave so 
long a blast that Willie Wilfong, the 
sturdy little newsboy, who lived under 
the big oak near the courthouse, 
looked up in surprise and called out 
to his comrades : "Somethin' extra to- 
day — listen to her, won't you?" And 
when double the number of copies of 
the Charleston Chronicle were handed 
out to him and he saw the first page, 
his eyes stood out with amazement, 
and he whistled softly as he read: 








Up Meeting street the news spread 
swiftly, and in its own little way Dun- 
vegan was as happy as Charleston 
herself. Undrilled in the ways of 
statesmen, from the beginning they 
counted it as war. Even the boys or- 
ganized their companies, and right 
manfully did they fight it out with 
cockleburs beneath the gum trees. 

The old flag was pulled down from 
the courthouse in due time, and the 
Dunvegan Volunteers were organized. 
And so there was something to talk 
about all winter long. 

But when they asked Tait Preston 
to become the captain of the company 
he was for a long time on the point of 

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declining, for he doubted, as he told 
Annie Little, the prettiest girl in all 
Dunvegan, whether it was worth 
while to forsake his law practice for 
a little three weeks' skirmish. Before 
the company was well organized it 
would be over. See how quickly 
Sumter had surrendered and how the 
Yankees had fled precipitately at Bull 
Run! "The war will be over before 
we get to the front, boys," he said. 

But his friends prevailed, for Tait 
had studied in the Virginia Military 
Institute at Lexington, under General 
Thomas Jonathan Jackson, and he 
knew the terms and plans of military 
affairs, and, besides, was he not an 
ideal captain — popular, young, robust, 
kind, daring, and yet, withal, as gen- 
tle as the happy girl who had pledged 
him her troth? 

One hundred and four men stood 
side by side and drilled regularly by 
the woods. The Dunvegan Volun- 
teers was to be the name, though most 
called them the "Dandies," for big 
Charleston had named one of her 
companies the "Kid Glove" company. 
The flag that the ladies were to pre- 
sent was to be of the bluest silk with a 
white cross in the center. 

Then the day came when marching 
orders were received, and Captain 
Preston told his men that they were 
to go to join the army of Northern 

The flag was to be presented. 

Dr. Allerton's mild blue eyes were 
turned towards the heavens they knew 
so well, in invocation. Amid much 
applause, Colonel Preston delivered 
the address, and beneath its arbor 
of fuzzy-fingered fir, all covered over 
with galax leaves and trailing arbu- 
tus, the band played "Dixie/* until 
they could no longer hear the notes 
for the shouting. Then the girl 
whom the captain thought the fairest 
in the valley of the Eseeolas, though 
he proudly added that his sister Helen 
was next, her cheeks blushing as red 
as the sweet azalea, advanced with 
the blue banner and its white cross. 

"The ladies of Dunvegan," she said 
(so some one told Tait afterward), 
"feel sure that in your hands no hos- 
tile foe can ever harm this banner, 

and they know that you will brine it 
bade to them unstained by defeat 

The shouting filled all the Silver 
Creek valley, till the echoes came back 
from Attacoa. Songs were heard on 
every side, and shouts of joy, and 
there were not half so many wet eyes 
among mothers and sweethearts as 
there would have been had they seen 
the gray tombstones in the graveyard 
of the little red church in under the 
oaks, peeping over the intervening 
fence to see who they were who were 
going to death so bravely. 

So when the partings were all done 
they marched away with steady steps 
and solid column, flanked on all 
sides by admiring lads, every man 
with a flower on his coat and some 
image in his heart. Little by little 
the music died away and the tumult 
and the shouting ceased and the dust 
settled again in the highway. 

And only a sturdy newsboy, with a 
far-away look in his eyes, stood gaz- 
ing where the brave company had dis- 
appeared, singing lustily : 

I want to be a soldier, 

And with the soldiers stand, 
A knapsack on my shoulders, 

A musket in my hand. 
And there beside Jeff Davis, 

So glorious and so brave, 
I'll whip the cussed Yankee 

And pile him in his grave. 


The months passed and the days 
came in the early spring when the 
winds grew gentler as they whispered 
their secrets to the new-born leaves, 
and the daisies are as pretty as the 
violets are later. A thrush sat on 
every bough in the Silver Creek val- 
ley, cheering on its consort to the 
worm hunt, and at midnight the edi- 
tor's daughter could hear the mock- 
ing bird as she stood, a little white 
dreamer, by the window that looked 
toward the cabin across the road. No 
letter had come that day, nor for 
many that had preceded, but she trust- 
ed. God saw her tears nightly as she 
looked up at him, and He knew that 
she trusted. 

Her father, who had well nigh 
fallen in his first battle, was slowly re- 

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cuperating under her loving care. 
Every afternoon she had his chair 
wheeled to a sunny corner of the 
porch and read to him from the Book 
of Books, while the invalid gazed 
broodingly over the peaceful land- 
scape and fitted the holy promises to 
the cause he loved so well. One aft- 
ernoon, when the blue birds seemed 
purple in the golden dust of the setting 
sun, she read to her wounded father 
till he fell asleep in his chair. Then, 
softly closing the book, she looked out 
over the expanse of valley and stream. 
The long shadow of the mystic Atta- 
coa crept slowly toward the little 
church in under the oaks. Far off a 
tiny speck in the air flew swift and 
straight toward the Sunahlee pigeon 
cote. Helen did not see it, but she 

knew that some day it would come. 
She closed her eyes as the notes of 
Uncle Ben's banjo came floating from 
his cabin, accompanied by his mellow, 
lingering tones: 

For de head mus' bow and de back will hab 
to bend, 
Wherever de darky may go, 
Jes' a few mo' days, and the trouble all will 

In the fieT whar the sugar cane grow. 
Jes' a few mo' days for to tote the weary load, 

No matter, 'twill never be light, 
Jes' a few mo' days for to totter on de 
Den my ole Kentucky home, good-night. 

A face, dark and swarthy, with 
keen, blade eyes that made light like 
a diamond, seemed to look at her 
from out of the darkness, till sudden- 
ly she opened her eyes wide. 

[To be continued] 


By Clara Dargan Maclean 

The years creep slowly by, Lorena. 

So we sang, sentimental youths and 
maidens, in those dear days when 
sentiment was not to be ashamed of, 
and our love-songs were mints of 
pure melody. Forty years ago! 
They have not "rolled slowly by," 
but with a rapidity that makes us 
breathless, wondering if we of that 
dreamful age — from 60 to '65, A. D. 
— will ever be able to "catch up." 
True, the war, the most eventful of 
modern times to this nation, might 
have taught us, in its results, at least, 
certain practical lessons, and many of 
that generation have learned in the 
school of adversity to "keep our feet 
on the earth," even while "our heads 
are among the stars." But that pe- 
riod was indeed the age of chivalry, 
fraught with deeds of daring, full of 
a beautiful romance. The very fact 
that husbands and lovers were in dan- 
ger invested them with a halo of 
glory. So we thrilled with a kindred 
glow as we sang to tinkling guitars 
under a silver moon: 

I'll hang my harp on the willow tree, 
And off to the wars again. 

It was then that one of the most ex- 
quisite love lyrics ever written be- 
came popular. Everywhere, in camp 
and drawing room, the tender words 
and yearning cadences were heard: 

There is a future — oh, thank God! 

Of life this is so small a part; 
'Tis dust to dust beneath the sod, 

But There — up There — 'tis heart to 

Many conflicting accounts of the 
composition of this song were in cir- 
culation at the time, and every now 
and then, up to the present day, some 
tradition in regard to it finds its way 
to the newspapers or magazines. I 
have been at some pains to ascertain 
the real facts. For, though now rele- 
gated to the list of "old ballads," it 
remains, with a score of others, as 
specimens of melody pure and sim- 
ple, and of real sentiment, unadultera- 
ted by the modern taint of eroticism 
or flippancy. Its echoes still "roll 
from soul to soul," and though faint 

Digitized by 




and far, wake in our war-worn memo- 
ries an indescribable tenderness. 

The words of "Lorena" were writ- 
ten by Rev. H. D. L. Webster, a na- 
tive of central New York, and the 
music by J. P. Webster, who, though 
bearing the same name, was not re- 
lated, and whom the author met when 
preaching at Racine, Wis., in 1858. 
The following letter was written by 
the poet in 1892, and gives the cir- 
cumstances under which the lyric was 

"The episode occurred a good while 
ago, and I have forgotten a great deal 
more than I can now recall. There 
was an attachment between a Miss 
Ella Blocksom and myself. A wealthy 
married sister had higher notions than 
to have a poor preacher enter the fam- 
ily, and finally broke the engagement. 
Ella married a young lawyer who aft- 
erward became Chief Justice of the 
Supreme Court of Ohio, and died 
about five years ago — the Hon. W. 
W. Johnson. Our youthful episode 
occurred while I was settled at Zanes- 
ville, Ohio. To look bade, I can say 
honestly that she did infinitely better 
than if we had had our way, and I felt 
better — after I got over it." 

The delicacy of the writer, ex- 
hibited as it is in every line of this 
letter, shrank from using the sacred 
name of the woman he loved, the ob- 
ject of his unselfish devotion and con- 
stancy. The name used in the origi- 
nal poem was Bertha, but this being 
unsuited to the rhythm when set to 
music, Lorena was substituted. 

This disappointment does not seem 
to have made any great change in the 
life of the author of this— one of the 
saddest and most real of poems — ex- 
cept to chasten, ennoble and pacify as 
all great sorrows are said to do, the 
true heart, and to make him sympa- 
thize more fully with the sorrowful 
and broken-hearted. He never ex- 
pressed any bitterness of feeling in re- 
gard to this experience. He loved the 
world and its people, and there was no 
room in his great heart for jealousy, 
anger or revenge. He married a lady 
of wealth and social position in New 
York, and at his death left a son, 
Horace Webster, who is now living 

in Tarpon Springs, Fla. He it was 
who kindly gave the facts in this arti- 
cle, and permission to have them pub- 

I have seen on the walls of his 
drawing room an oil portrait of the 
poet The noble, open, intellectual 
countenance no doubt left a corre- 
sponding impress on the heart and 
memory of the well-loved maiden 
whom he thus immortalized. The 
words of the song as originally pub- 
lished and sung were as follows: 

The years creep slowly by, Lorena, 

The snow is on the grass again, 
The sun's low down the sky, Lorena; 

The frost gleams where the flowers have 
But the heart beats on as warmly now 

As when the summer days were nigh; 
Oh! the sun can never dip so low 

Adown affection's cloudless sky I 

A hundred months have passed, Lorena, 

Since last I held that hand in mine. 
And felt the pulse beat fast, Lorena, 

Though mine beat faster far than thine; 
A hundred months — 'twas flow'ry May, 

When up the hilly slope we climbed 
To watch the dying of the day 

And hear the distant church bells chimed. 

We loved each other then, Lorena, 

More than we ever dared to tell, 
And what we might have been, Lorena, 

Had but our loving prospered well! 
But then, 'tis past, the years are gone; 

I'll not call up their shadowy forms. 
Ill say to them, "Lost years, sleep on! 

Sleep on ! Nor heed life's pelting storms." 

The story of the past, Lorena, 

Alas! I care not to repeat: 
The hopes that could not last, Lorena, 

They lived, but only lived to cheat. 
I would not cause e'en one regret 

To rankle in your bosom now, 
For "if we try we mav forget," 

Were words of thine long years ago. 

Yes, these were words of thine, Lorena; 

They burn within my memory yet; 
They touch some tender chords, Lorena, 

Which thrill and tremble with regret. 
'Twas not thy woman's heart that spoke — 

Thy heart was always true to me. 
A duty stern and pressing broke 

The tie that links my soul with thee. 

It matters Httle now, Lorena, 

The past is in th' eternal past. 
Our heads will soon lie low, Lorena; 

Life's tide is ebbing out so fast. 
There is a Future, O thank God! 

Of life this is so small a part! 
Tis dust to dust beneath the sod, 
IfcBut There— up There — 'tis heart to heart! 

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By Walter Malone 

In days long past no happier ship than I 

Flung forth her empire's banner to the breeze; 

No bolder bark withstood a stormy sky, 
With fiercer ardor fought the foaming seas. 

But then at last a day of evil came 

On which we met the onslaught of the foe. 
Oh, who shall tell the story of my shame, 

My desolation, my disgrace, my woe? 

My hull was splintered by their bursting shells, 
My tottering turrets down the deck were hurled; 

I heard my dying seamen's shrieks and yells, 
As red flames through the black smoke waved and whirled. 

I saw my gunners fall beside their guns, 

I saw my captain, sword in hand, drop dead; 
Shot after shot struck down my splendid sons, 

And splashed my bosom with a frightful red. 

Ah, could I then have foundered in the flood, 
And won the glorious death that waits the brave! 

Could I have sunk, baptized in precious blood, 
To endless honor in an ocean grave! 


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But no, they took me to their far-off shore, * 
And nailed their hated standard to my mast; 

I served my king, my fatherland, no more; 
I fought the flag I bled for in the past! 

So, like a Judas, I must sail the sea, 

A traitor to the master loved so well; 
A hated outcast, still I flee and flee, 

Around me ocean — in my heart a hell! 

And since that time, when days of peace have come, 
I sometimes meet old comrade-ships I knew; 

Ah, how they spurn me as they spurn the scum, 
And pass me, shamed, and shrinking from their view! 

Sometimes at dusk I hear my sailors call, 
And see their hands up-beckoning from the deep ; 

"Oh, come!" they tell me. "Show them after all, 
Your faith, your honor, you will die to keep!" 

God grant some night an awful storm shall rise, 
And give me chance for vengeance on this foe; 

How I should gloat to hear their craven cries, 
As I should pitch to take them all below! 

Then I should shout above their last wild yell, 
"I bring them, sons, a sacrifice to you! 

They lied who said I did not love you well; 
O, matchless sailor boys, my soul is true!" 


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S the sun clears the 
horizon there is a 
Jl perceptible loss in 
Y; the voices of the 
\s birds. The clear, 
9 melodious soprano 
5§ of the robin grows 
jjj intermittent and f rag- 
^ mentary, and then 
|| ceases altogether. It 
^ is time for him to 
dine, and first he must preen his 
feathers and make his toilet at the 
brook hard by. And then other sing- 
ers drop away from the chorus, one 
by one, for they, too, must smooth 
their plumage and make themselves 
spick and span for the day's feasting 
and the day's joy of sunshine and 
song. Last of all, the bobolink aban- 
dons his pipes for his palate and hies 
him forth to join the epicures of the 
foliage and tree trunks, the air and 
the ground. 

Very dainty are the birds in their 
toilet making and very charming and 
irreproachable as they hop forth to 
the feast. It is no state dining, this 
familiar recurrence of each succeed- 
ing day, but the sun is mellow 
through the tree-tops and warm upon 
the meadow grass, and the ornamen- 
tation is elaborate and artistic. Deli- 
cate ferns grace the tables of the 
thrushes and the wild pigeons, and 
soft tinted sprays and buds are there 
for the garden robins and the patri- 
cians of the sylvan family. Lichens, 
as finely tinted as flowers, are about 
the plates of the woodpeckers and the 
chickadees and the wrens, and out in 
the meadow the bobolinks have table 
garnishments of clover heads and 
dandelions. Singers of songs are 
there for them among the insects, 
and tiny players of fiddles and lyres 
and harps. Grasshoppers dance and 
pipe for them, and the brook plays 

softly upon its ripples. Breezes fan 
them luxuriously and all about are 
odors so exquisite as to be suggestive 
rather than traceable. 

And up in the air, away from the 
foliage and limbs and ground, there 
is another table, with no decorations 
save the undulating landscape below 
and the blue sky above. Hither and 
thither fly the swallows, circling and 
wheeling and darting, for they take 
their food upon the wing, and the in- 
sect rovers are as active in eluding as 

i. ¥ 


the dusky-winged privateers are in 
pursuit. Far out into the open spaces 
they flash, and low down to the grassy 
surface of the meadows, and again 
almost brushing the foliage where 
the fly-catchers and kinglets are ban- 

There is no intermingling of habits 
among the diners. True Hindoos of 
custom are they, and veritable Chinese 
of tradition. Bohemian though the 

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robins may be, and gamins the spar- 
rows, and cosmopolitans the bobo- 
links, not one of them would cross the 
line of his dining custom to touch 
bill and eat salt with other than his 
own set. The thrushes are guardians 
of the ground, and upon the ground 
they do their feasting. But the black- 
birds are also ground lovers, and the 
wild pigeons, and the larks, and the 
bobolinks, and their tables of feast- 
ing have also ferns and wild flowers 
and wild grasses for decoration; but 
the manner of serving is different, or 
they are not one in the way of eating. 
The robin is never a guest of the 
blackbird, nor the wild pigeon at the 
board of the bobolink. Indeed, it 
may seem the robin has a soul above 
eating, for even at feast time his head 
is in the air and his bill inclined up- 
ward, as though in contemplation of 
the profundities of existence. But 
watch him intently, unswervingly, and 

though the bill has already returned 
to a serene contemplation of the sky, 
another apparent philosopher has 
been exposed. With the blackbird, 



in course of time there will be a 
downward inclination of the bill, a 
quick hop forward and a vigorous 
picking into the soil, and — well, al- 

however, there is no outside digres- 
sion. He is entirely devoted to his 
task and marches along with bill 
turned downward in close examina- 
tion of the soil, which he picks indus- 
triously and incessantly for anything 
and everything which he may think 

The rough-barked, wide-spreading 
tree is like a town with its diners of 
many tables and customs. The same 
sun shines upon them all, and the 
same air around and soil below con- 
tribute to their existence; but though 
they are one in habitation, they are 
apart in all else. The golden robins 
and kinglets and gnat-catchers, who 
feast among the blossoms and very 
tipmost spray of the foliage, know 
little of the woodpeckers, whose tables 
are the rough bark of the tree trunk ; 
and the wrens and creepers and 

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chickadees, moving round and round 
the limbs, as though goin£ to their 
courses, instead of having their 
courses come to them, are social 
strangers to the fly-catchers, whose 
province it is to sway lightly upon the 
branch tips and take their food as it 
darts near them on the wing. Guar- 
dians are they all of the tree, even as 

grass, and the guests ready and con- 

Though the feasting may be hedged 
in by customs and traditions, it is not 
a feast of ceremony nor of arbitrary 
limits of time. From the last bars of 
the morning anthem to the first trills 
of the vesper hymn, the banqueting 
goes on, broken at will of the feasters 
by conversation and song, and even 
by occasional sallies from the festive 
board. There is no arbitrary rule of 
table etiquette. They partake only of 
such courses as they choose and pass 
such as they have no inclination for at 
the time, and when it pleases them 
they return to the same course again, 


the tree gives them shelter and pro- 

It is a curious thing, this steady 
supply of buzzing and crawling and 
darting food, which, but for the merry 
feasters, might, in a single season, de- 
stroy the tree, and the lack of which 
even through a single day would scat- 
ter the birds. But the sun, mellowing 
through the foliage, or lying warm 
upon the meadow grass, finds them 
ever there, the food upon the baric 
tables and among the branch tips and 

or confine themselves to it altogether. 
Some dine temperately and some hun- 
grily; some with many little airs of 
self-consciousness, and some abstract- 
edly and in silence. Now and then 
there is a flashing off into the sunlight 
or down to the brook's edge ; of spray 
diners down to the ground, or of 
ground feasters up among the foli- 

But such digressive exuberance of 
wings is almost involuntary and of 
brief duration. For the most part the 
feasting is continuous until the sun's 
rays become vertical ; then there is a 
growing silence and apathy, and many 
of the diners slip away to a leafy cov- 
ert, where they tuck their heads be- 
neath their wings for a short siesta. 
That over, they return to the tables, 
where the feasting continues until it 
is time for them to assemble for the 
evening hymn of thanks. 

Digitized by 


Author of "The Story of Sarah." "The Ship of Dreams," "Dutchtown Storta," etc 


Memory Homestead, 

New York City, 1906. 
Dear Boy Over-the-Bread-Line : 

Where is that mythical, geographical 
line? Where do they cease having 
Irish potatoes and a cold yeasty noth- 
ingness made of flour three times a 
day and begin to fly the royal yellow 
flag of sweet potatoes and corn pone? 
Billy, I'm hungry! Wouldn't Miss 
Mamie be shocked if she could hear 
me say that? — for she is the most gen- 
erous soul in the world, and would be- 
stow upon me fifteen meals a day if 
I would eat them. But I am hungry 
for the home table, and suppose that 
kind of hunger is heart hunger, after 
all. It's not the food you mis3 so 
much as the love that stirs the batter, 
the love that sets the table and the 
love that beams from the table's head 
and foot, and even — sometimes—the 
silly, blessed adoration that "lap? 
eyes" at you from the guest's seat 
of honor. Do you often go out to 
break bread with the old folks nowa- 
days, Billy Boy? You must go as 
often as you can, for I know that, pig- 
headed and vagrant-spirited though I 
am, they miss me, and you may make 
me seem a little nearer to the old-folks- 
at-home. And I want you to make 
haste, child, and tell Mammy Lou that 
I have had beaten biscuit. Yes, sir, 
beaten biscuit! And they were good 
— nothing will ever make me say that 
they were not, because love certainly 
ditf go into their making. Miss Ma- 

mie — bless her heart! — knew my se- 
cret hankering and procured the rec- 
ipe from an old Virginia mammy, a 
rheumatic, feeble creature who comes 
around peddling horse radish openly, 
and the hind feet of rabbits . :* the sly. 
Ah, Billy, don't tell me they are not 
superstitious in New York — they are ! 
Miss Mamie goes to a fortune teller 
every week. I think it's against the 
law to practice the occult arts here, 
but just the same you see a sign every 
few blocks. Only a short time ago 
a man was arrested for selling whisk 
brooms at five dollars apiece, for 
brushing sins away. If we could only 
get rid of our sins as cheaply as that ! 
Privately, I believe that the folks 
who bought the brushes no more ex- 
pected to lose their sins by the act 
than a housewife expects her house to 
stay forever clean just because she 
has purchased a new broom. No, sir ; 
we buy brooms to use, and the only 
way to get rid of our sins is to stop 
sinning, and New York is not going 
to do that in a hurry. It keeps the tail 
of its eye on the whisk broom and 
blithely goes on raising dust. 

Well, old Mammy-thing warned 
Miss Mamie that the success of beaten 
biscuits does not depend upon the 
"injergrediments nor the prosperpor- 
tions, but on the beatinest beatin'." 
The Chinese cook who now rules over 
the restaurant kitchen refused to lend 
his good right arm to the enterprise — 
goodness knows what magic he 
thought had been worked into the 

Digitized by 




dough — and every one else around the 
place developed rheumatism, so one 
day Miss Mamie seized upon a no- 
'count Cuban, a fellow who claims to 
be a hero of the Spanish-American 
War, who comes begging in broken 
English to the door every morning, 
and who has never been turned away 
hungry — seized upon him like a pi- 
rate and drove him into the hold, i. e., 
the kitchen. Skeptical of the clean- 
liness of his garments she shrouded 
him from the top of his head to the 
sole of his feet in cheesecloth, cutting 
holes for his arms. Then the arms 
she swathed around with a double 
layer of cheesecloth. Then she put an 
axe in his hand, and indicating the 
biscuit dough on the board, gave the 
order to "thump.*" 

There stood the Chinese cook, a 
toaster in his hand, grinning diabol- 
ically at the pair. The waitresses for- 
got all about their orders in j>eeping ; 
the dish-washers turned their heads 
where they stood at the sink; and the 
Cuban hero stared wildly at Miss 
Mamie through the cheesecloth as if 
he thought she had suddenly come to 
be more dreadful than a whole regi- 
ment of Weylers. He would have 
understood the Weylers, but whatever 
was Miss Mamie intending? 

"Hy, guy!" cried Miss Mamie in 
Long Islandish, turning to me. "Just 
look at that, now! I've fed him all 
winter and now he won't lift a finger 
for me. Seflor Fiddlesticks, you 

"Si, sir he answered eagerly, but 
without making a movement to obey. 

"If you see/ she cried in exaspera- 
tion, "why don't you do it?" And 
still he stared, that poor, bewildered 
soldier. Then she seized the ax in her 
own hand and brought down the back 
of the blade with a goodly pound on 
the dough. "Si, sir he cried again, 
in a burst of comprehension, "I lick 
him!" and, taking the axe, he began 
to beat and beat and beat as if he 
were pounding the past, present and 
future crowned heads of Spain into a 

The Chinese cook relaxed and in- 
formed me in his outrageous jargon 
that if I wanted real nice, devilish 

things to eat, he knew a mighty fine 
restaurant in Chinatown. With that 
I fell to giggling; but Miss Mamie 
stood over the Cuban as sober as a 
judge for full forty minutes watching 
the steady rise and fall of the axe. 
Even then she would not have re- 
leased him had I not insisted that he 
had beaten enough. The biscuit were 
good — yes, they were ! — but that poor 
man has not been here a-begging 
since. I am sure he thinks this place 
is to be avoided as a secret lunatic 
asylum, and I am the more worried 
about him because we do not know in 
what wretched corner of Manhattan 
he makes his bed, and only last night 
the Undiscovered Genius told me that 
he had seen him in the "bread line." 

Do you know what the New York 
bread line is, Charming Billy? It 
is a line of desperately hungry men 
that apply at a certain bakery next 
door to Grace Church every night 
for loaves of bread and coffee. Louis 
Fleischman, a soldier and millionaire, 
as well as a baker, started the charity 
about thirty years ago, and although 
he himself has since gone even be- 
yond the heart hunger line, the loaves 
and coffee are provided night after 
night just the same. This brings me 
back to my old, old argument that 
sentiment pays in business; for this 
bread line has been written up and 
sketched and painted, advertised so 
much in the natural order of things, 
that it has made the bakery famous. 
Moreover, old members of the line, 
coming into better days, go back to 
the bakery to lunch and sup extrava- 
gantly and purchase bread by the 
cartload. The bakery property has 
been bought by Grace Church, and 
the business is to move a few blocks 
uptown, but the distribution of the 
bread and coffee will go on just the 

One frightfully cold night last win- 
ter the Undiscovered Genius and I 
stood watching the bread line, watch- 
ing the men shuddering and shiver- 
ing and slinking down into their coat 
collars until we ourselves were driven 
along by the cold. We passed Grace 
Church, so strangely in contrast to 
that ragged line of derelicts, unlight- 

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ed, as quiet as a Quaker meeting 
house, its slender spire not reaching 
high, but seeming to bring heaven 
down round about it, its whole aspect 
that of a mother breathing intense 
and silent prayer. We looked back to 
the hunger line, drifting out of the 
comparative hush and darkness which 
descends upon this retail business 
portion of Broadway after nightfall — 
where had the men come from? 
What were their stories? And if we 
knew their heartaches all in all, would 
our own hearts burst to breaking? 
And from the line we looked up to 
where the lights of Union Square 
were blazing out across the park from 
the cheap amusement houses on Four- 
teenth Street. With our mind's eye 
we could see on and on, up Broad- 
way — that part of Broadway which is 
New York's pleasure ground at night, 
the play-house district — where there 
are other hunger lines running in ev- 
ery possible direction. They do not 
go quietly, these lines; they do not 
seek the dark shadows; they do not 
wait their turn; but they run madly 
hither and thither, in the blaze of a 
million of lights, to the beat of ten 
thousand strains of music, with a 
flashing of jewels, a jangling of cars, 
a hurry of cabs, laughter, smiles, light 
words, light promises, a worry of 
wealth and a whirl of wonder — the 
pleasure-hunger lines of New York. 
Where do all these folk come from? 
What are their stories? If we knew 
their heart-aches all in all, would our 
own hearts burst to breaking? 

And between the two hunger lines 
stands Grace Church, hushed and still, 
yet seeming ever to call through the 
night: "Peace, peace to him that is 
far off and to him that is near!" 

The Undiscovered Genius used to 
rent one of the studios above the 
bakery. And he told me that night 
in one of his rare bursts of confidence 
that if ever a six months went by 
without his having to resort to the 
bread line for food, he considered 
himself a lucky child. When he lived 
in the studio this was somewhat em- 
barrassing, for he was afraid that the 
baker folks might come to judge his 
rent purse by the apparent condition 

of his food pocket book. He says that 
he always keeps the two purses sep- 
arate, and never lets the rent one be- 
come entirely flat 

"Then you'd rather mosey alone 
without food than without shelter? 
I asked him. 

"I've done both," he answered 
cheerily. "But you know about the 
tramp, who said he would rather 
sleep than eat, because he could dream 
he was eating. And while I have a 
roof, I have my books, and you know 
what Ruskin says about bread. 
'Bread of flour is good, but there is 
bread, sweet as honey, if we would 
eat it, in a good book.' " 

That is just like the Undiscovered 
Genius, to mix up Ruskin and tramps. 
He is a curious mixture, that red- 
headed rascal, and I never know just 
when he is making fun of me. For 
instance, there is the story of his first 
book, the one which made all the crit- 
ics say that he would "bear watch- 
ing." Do you think I am talking a 
lot about the Undiscovered Genius, 
Billy dear? Bless your heart, I just 
want to prove to you what an imprac- 
tical, impossible fellow he is, so you 
will know that I could not be persuad- 
ed to fall in love with him, even if 
the Only Man in the World were not 
down yonder, slaving the brains right 
out of his head for me. I'd as soon 
think of falling in love with this crazy 
little old Bohemian as I would with 
a redbird. I love things that can be 
tamed and domesticated, you know— 
that's why I love you. Have you been 
breaking loose lately, villain? First 
thing I hear you will be having an- 
other sweetheart in Dixie. 

There, I started out to tell you 
more about the Undiscovered Genius, 
who is the only man I have met in 
New York thus far outside of busi- 
ness who hasn't tried to make love to 
me. Now, who says I am not loyal 
in using him as a good, faithful old 
watchdog to keep the others away? 
He is the only one of them all who 
believes in a Southern engagement; 
and I do appreciate his faith in us. 
Well, to start at the beginning — he 
was born on the East Side — isn't 
that romantic, or are you shocked? 

Digitized by 




Maybe it was thirty years ago, and 
maybe it was fifty. Like many an- 
other New Yorker, he sometimes 
looks like a precocious boy, and some- 
times like a world-weary old man 
struggling valiantly to appear youth- 
ful. But, although he was bora in 
the slums, he is folks," as Mammy 
Lou would say, for his people were 
Irish gentlefolk banished from the old 
country for "raising ructions," as he 
expresses it, among .the peasantry. 
He has a dream of coming into his 
own some day, and his own, he says, 
is a gray, hoary old castle in the realm 
of St Patrick. It is a disheartened, 
worn-out New Yorker, indeed, who 
does not cling to some dream of get- 
ting rich — fabulously, bewilderingly 
rich, all in a minute. And do you 
know really, dear Billy, the immi- 
grant's dream has come true — they 
have picked up gold in the streets of 
New Amsterdam? They discovered 
it during this past winter while dig- 
ging for a foundation for a new build- 
ing down town, in the midst of the 
Wall Street section. The assayists 
vow that there are rich mines under 
the streets, but the real estate above 
is so much richer in its rent values 
that it would not pay to tear down 
the buildings in order to dig up the 
gold. Gold sleeps on gold here, and 
we can wish in vain that the dear 
Colonel Grandad's plantation would 
with a whiff and a puff — presto, 
change! — be transferred to Broad- 
way. There is room for it, sure 
enough. I declare, Billy mine, they 
have kept a place just on purpose for 
it between Trinity Church and St 
Paul's, at Cedar Street, where the 
numbers skip from 119 to 135 on one 
side of Broadway and from 120 to 
128 on the other. Did you ever hear 
of a town in such a hurry as New 
York? It never stops for anything, 
not even to wait for itself. Of course, 
when you consider the question se- 
riously — you stupid, practical, owl- 
eyed old Billy — there would not be 
room on the "ground floor" for the 
whole plantation — not for all its 
woody, stream -bound, magnolia- 
scented, blessed, breath ful sweep— but 
we could build it up in tiers — away, 

away up until we reached the snow 
line. You know that the sky-scrapers 
of New York are getting mighty close 
to the line, and they say that one of 
the features of the new Singer build- 
ing, which is to soar about all the 
present sky-scrapers of New York, is 
to be an all-the-year-round-toboggan 
slide for the employes. I wonder if 
they won't hang a sign on the eleva- 
tors, "Short-cut to heaven?" 

There, Billy, I am almost to the 
end of my paper, and I have not be- 
gun to tell you all about the Undis- 
covered Genius; and yet I have let 
you into his secret, too, for he is half 
finished, just as this story is. He 
starts a thing beautifully, but some- 
where in the middle his inspiration 
gives out, and until he finds the 
strength to work and work and work 
until he {jets his inspiration back, he 
will remain just another one of those 
unevenly scintillating, no account ar- 
tists of New York. There are plenty 
of them in the Bohemian set You 
can tell them from the real ones by 
the amount of talking they do about 
themselves. The real ones almost in- 
variably keep mum about their work 
— some from modesty, some because 
they are too tired with long labor to 
thrash the subject over, some because 
they are afraid to air a single idea lest 
it be gobbled up and pirated by some- 
body else, and some refrain from talk- 
ing over their plans because they 
argue that the moment you talk of 
your work, the work loses some of 
its vital force; its essence evaporates; 
it is not yours, but all the world's, 
as soon as you let it ripple over your 
tongue, and the world loses it, and 
when you go to seek your own, you 
cannot find it I don't know. I don't 
know anything, Billy, since coming to 
New York. Do you remember how 
decided I used to be in all my opin- 
ions? That's what caused some of 
the quarrels. I have learned this out- 
side of the adoring, adorable home 
circle, and that is the truth of the old 
saying: "How much we must know 
in order to know how little we know !" 

As ever — more than ever — your 
Dixie Girl. 

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THE grey light of dawn was 
sifting through the heavy 
wooden shutters into the front 
room of Quong Lee's laundry, 
but in the back room, where the bunks 
were, all was yet darkness, and the 
curtains of four of the bunks each hid 
a sleeping occupant. Upon the pre- 
vious evening circumstances had com- 
pelled Quong Lee to give a feast, and 
all night long his avaricious soul 
writhed within him, making his slum- 
ber miserable. Not until nearly morn- 
ing did his cloudy brain cease to trans- 
form all sounds that reached it into 
assaults upon his liquor and his store 
oi yen. 

In the early hours, therefore, when 
sleep finally came to him, he was not 
aroused by a stealthy, shuffling foot- 
fall and the rattle of the latch at the 
back door. These were followed by 
a scraping against the panels, and 
above them, through the open tran- 
som, appeared a yellow face. Then 
the intruder's foot slipped from the 
doorknob, there was a grunt, a wild 
scraping of feet, and the face disap- 

The four men stirred in their sleep. 
Che-le Quong, peddler of lottery tick- 
ets, murmured: "You have won forty 
yen, affable Quong Lee; give a feast." 
Ming Sang, the other guest, gurgled 
an unintelligible phrase or two regard- 
ing things drinkable, and Wah On, 
Quong Lee's laborer, echoed it. 
Quong Lee, true to his nature even in 
sleep, dreamily whined, "Ai-ya, cous- 
ins, I am miserably poor;" and then 
all was silence once more. 

Cautiously the face reappeared 
above the door. It was a quaint, 
homely countenance, with shrewd yet 
kindly eyes, that humorously winked 

as they surveyed the room. There 
was more scraping and struggling, a 
leg was thrust through the transom, 
and the intruder's body came into 
view. A marvelous twist brought the 
head outside again, and in its place the 
other leg was introduced. It was a 
most peculiar movement — a chess- 
player might have called it "castling." 
It was followed by a sound of ripping 
cloth as the figure dropped to the floor 

"Yes, beneficent employer," grunted 
Wah On, "I shall arise immediately," 
and he went to sleep again. 

Quong Lee stirred on his pallet, and 
the intruder scuttled across the room 
and disappeared behind the curtains 
of an unoccupied bunk just as Quong 
thrust out his head and shouted at 
his laborer. Wah quickly sprang to 
the floor, where presently he was joined 
by the three other Chinese, and the 
day in the laundry had begun. 

Ming Sang, Chinatown's scholar, 
scribe, and go-between, stretched his 
tall, gaunt form and waved his long 
arms about. "Haai!" he exclaimed 
to Che-le, "what a sleep! I cannot 
arouse myself from it." 

"It was that wretched foreign 
liquor," Che-le answered, glancing at 
the jug that stood in the corner. 
"Any one else than Quong Lee would 
have provided better, after winning 
forty yen. The honorable Kwoh Hi 
won but ten yen, yet he sent, for his 
friends and went all the way to the 
store of Lee Kwi for food and drink 
for the feast. On the morning after 
that triumphant occasion we awoke 
as brave and strong as fighting 

"But, without doubt," Ming sug- 
gested, "the affable Quong Lee in- 

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tends to prepare as triumphant a 
breakfast. When it is eaten I shall 
begin upon him in regard to the 
matter which brought me here last 

"Wah On," called Quong to the 
laborer, "you and I shall need but a 
nibble this morning; cook little, cook 

"Honorable man," began Ming, 
blandly, "while we wait for the food 
let us discuss that matter of the send- 
ing home of Kiang-fu, the widow. It 
is not decent for her to remain longer 
in this land where she has no relatives. 
We must send her home where she will 
be under proper control, and let that 
family of foreigners who now employ 
her take one of the cousins to work for 
them. It is a great scandal that one 
of our women should work for these 
foreign people; with all my experience 
I have never heard the like." 

"I am a poor man," squealed Quong 
Lee piteously. "Let those who wish 
to work for the family of fan-qui 
contribute to send Kiang-fu away. 
Or, better yet, let one of the cousins 
marry her, and take her to our settle- 
ment. Haai ! That would be the better 
way. Let some one marry her; it is 
more decent and less expensive than 
sending her away." 

Ming shook a jade box from the 
sleeve of his blouse, and took from it 
a pinch of snuff. 

"That is a most excellent idea," he 
commented, sagely wagging his head, 
"but she has obstinately refused to be 
honored with a husband. I, myself, 
clothed in my garments of ceremony, 
went to her at the foreign house where 
she is employed, and suggested the 
matter. She was scornful and cast 
hot water upon me; I think she has 
lived so long among the foreign women 
that she has adopted their ways." 

Quong nodded, and turned to Wah 
On, who was emptying a can of thick 
peanut oil over a panful of chopped 
meat. "Ai-ya, you wasteful spawn 
of a turtle !" he shouted ; "let the meat 
provide its own fat ; the honorable Ming 
Sang will suppose me to be a person of 
great wealth, and expect a triumphant 
contribution for the sending away of 
the miserable woman. But he will 

be disappointed ; this wretched laundry 
provides but a scant living. I am a 
poor man, cousin Ming Sang." 

"Truly, I know it, beneficent per- 
son," answered the scholar. "Yet 
you are a student at the foreign temple 
that stands on the corner below here; 
and surely the fan-qui who worship 
there liberally patronize you in return 
for the honor you do them." 

"I receive some of their work," 
Quong rejoined, "else I should never 
be seen at their worship. A little 
work and a little knowledge of their 
language is to be gained there. The 
fan-qui know me to be a poor person, 
sober and industrious and of great 
virtue. Take down the shutters, Wah 
On, that any of them who are passing 
may see that we are early at our work. 
Let us go into the front room, cousins, 
where we may be seen. Push the dust 
out of sight beneath the ironing table; 
those worshipers are very devils for 

Ming took another pinch of snuff 
and went over to a counter, upon which 
stood a tray containing a stone ink- 
slab and some bamboo writing brushes. 

"What sum shall I mark down 
against you?" he demanded, as he 
moistened the slab and rubbed the 
stick of ink upon it. "There are 
some yen lacking, and you are the last 
cousin to be seen." 

"Some yen lacking?" Quong echoed 
with a shudder, ' 'and you come to me ?" 

"It was my duty to call upon you 
in the matter. The cousins decided 
that Kiang-fu must be married or sent 
home; she refused, as I have said, to 
be honored with a husband, so we 
must make up a suitable sum for her 
passage home." 

"The wretched Kiang-fu," Quong 
snorted; "the miserable widow, to 
defy the maxims of the sages and 
make a needless expense to honorable 
men! Why is she not eager for the 
marriage, as all should be?" 

"How many yen from you, cousin?" 
Ming interrupted. 

"How many?" shrilled Quong; 
"none at all! A half perhaps, or a 
pinch of coppers. Ai-ya, honorable 
scholar, I have not two yen between 
myself and the cousins' charity." 

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4 There are tome yen lacking, and you are the last cousin to be seen" 

Digitized by 




A rustling sounded from the bunk, 
and a red handkerchief, knotted into 
a bag, fell to the floor. It struck with 
the musical tinkle of coin against coin. 
The stranger clambered after it and 
demanded : 

"What are these, Quong Lee?" 

"The widow!" screamed Quong, 
rushing into the back room and diving 
at the bandana. "Up with the shut- 
ters again — the widow is upon us!" 

Kiang-fu waddled out into the front 
room. "A prosperous day, honorable 
men," she exclaimed. "Wah On, if 
the shutters are put up I shall begin 
a most triumphant yelling." 

Wah hesitated and looked at his 


"Keep out of 
Quong to thewid- 
ow. "If the wor- 
shipers see you 
here I shall lose 
face among them. 
Tell me quickly 
what you want, 

The widow 
seated herself up- 
on a stool where 
she would be in 
plain sight from 
the street. "I 
wish to remain in 
this land," she 
began. "I wish 
to remain in the 
family of foreign 
devils; there is a 
triumphant child 
there whom I 
greatly esteem, 
so in order to stay 
among them I 
have come here 
to be married. 
The scholar, 
there, is a most 
successful go-be- 
tween; Ming 
Sang, act for me 
in this matter. 
Haai, do not look 
so terrified, 
Quong Lee; mar- 
riage is not so 
painful a matter 1" 

sight, then," said 

Ming Sang looked from Quong to 
the widow, and back again, while 
Che-le was on tip-toe to be off and 
spread the news of the sensation. 

"This must proceed after the regu- 
lar custom," said Ming at length. 
"But if you desired a marriage, why 
did you bestow upon me so triumph- 
ant a yelling when I visited you clothed 
in my garments of ceremony?" 

"Then I did not know," said the 
widow, "that the cousins were anx- 
ious to take me away from my foreign 
devils and their child." 

"I shall consult with the affable 
Quong Lee." 

"You shall not," Quong declared 
vehemently. "I shall not listen. Wom- 
an, you are a person of no face to come 
m mtm m m wm m mm m ^ down upon me in 
this way." 

"It is noth- 
ing," declared the 
widow. "The 
daughter of the 
household where 
I dwell frequently 
visits the place of 
employment of 
the man who is 
to honor her with 
a marriage. On 
these occasions 
she receives many 
flowers from 

"You will get 
no flowers from 
me, Kiang-fu; not 
so much as an 

The widow 
glanced out of the 
window. "I see 
some of the tem- 
ple people com- 
ing," die said. 
"They know me 
well; they have 
visited me at my 

Quong Lee 
danced about 
wringing his 
hands. "I shall 
lose my face!" he 

KUnf-f* wsddted out lato tho front room 

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• You will get no flow«rs from me^Kiang-fu; not to nraeh as an onion 

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squealed;! "the temple worshipers will 
forsake me." 

"Then listen to my go-between," 
Kiang-f u suggested. ' ' Decide quickly, 
and I shall go; my foreign devils are 
expecting me." 

Quong stood still long enough to 
demand: "Do they know where you 
went, and for what?" 

"The women do; yesterday I con- 
sulted with them." 

"How much she knows of the 
foreign customs!" said Ming, in a tone 
of admiration. "It is thus that the 
women consult together before going 
to secure a husband. Quong Lee, I 
am the go-between for the widow 
Kiang-f u; will you listen to me?" 

"I shall be of no expense to you, 
affable Quong," tetnpted the widow. 
4 ' I shall always remain with thte foreign 
devils; and you, as my honorable hus- 
band, shall keep the cousins from 
sending me to the Middle Kingdom. 
Here come the temple worshipers, 
honorable man." 

"The arrangement is one of econo- 
my," Che-le suggested. "Accept, and 

I shall at once go to tell the cousins 
of the circumstances." 

"Truly, it is a proper thing," said 
Ming. "If you wish, I shall return 
the money contributed by the cousins, 
and come back in my garments of 
ceremony to complete the arrange- 
ments. That would be more seemly." 

"Will you go at once?" Quong de- 
manded; "all of you — before break- 

"Yes," answered the chorus. 

Quong opened the back door. "I 
agree, then. Go, and may devils 
devour your ancestors' bones." 

"Honorable scholar," said Kiang- 
fu, as they filed out, "remember that 
a faithful go-between is a joy to the 
pearly emperors of heaven." 

"Have no fear, widow," replied 
Ming, striking his breast. "The 
matches that I begin upon never 

The voice of Quong Lee came out 
after them: "Wah On, remove the 
meat from the stove, and put on the 
rice kettle. We shall nibble but a 
little this morning, you and I." 


By Garnet Noel Wiley 

I THINK," said Aurora, slowly 
twisting a tiny, yellow curl about 
a small, pink finger, "I think, 
Patsy, that he is going to pro- 
pose to-night." 

"Or to-morrow morning — or the 
next day," I interrupted, skeptically. 

"Or to-morrow morning," repeated 
Aurora, undisturbed, "not later than 

"New York or Denver time?" 

She consulted a ridiculous little blue 
watch. It appeared to have hands 
but I am uncertain that it ticked. 
"New Orleans will do," she said 
sweetly; then she gave one of her deft 
little pats to my pompadour, and ar- 
ranged my stock. Wh^n Aurora 
primps me and calls me Patsy she 
is about to make a request. Evidently 

this request was going to be more 
audacious and preposterous than usual, 
for in place of wheedling me with little 
cousinly caresses, she fidgeted un- 
comfortably on the arm of my chair. 



"Patsy — er — would you do me the 
biggest favor — that you ever did for 
me — if I'd give you that embroidered 
chiffon stuff you wanted for a waist?" 

"I don't know," I answered guard- 
edly, while my eyes wandered with 
telltale covetousness to that treas- 
ure drawer of Aurora's chiffonier. 
"How wide is it?" 

"You know it's double width! Be- 
sides," she threw this in with careless 
magniloquence, "all that lace goes 
with it" 

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"What do you wish me to do?" I 
said weakly. 

Aurora slid to her knees and buried 
her fluffy head in my lap. ' ' You won't 
do it!" she kissed one of my fingers 
and gave a little wriggle of anxiety. 
"Oh, Palsy, will you?" 

"I have to know what it is, first." 

"It's — it's — you know I'm going to 
refuse him, Patsy?" 

"I didn't know it," I cried with 
asperity, "and, furthermore, if you 
are you ought to be ashamed of your- 
self, Aurora Welburton!" 

Aurora kissed my hand again. 
"Patsy, I want you to follow him up 
town and watch him — and see how 
he takes it." 

I sprang up indignantly. "Indeed, 
I won't! Indeed, I'll do nothing of 
the kind. You are a cruel, hard- 
hearted little flirt!" 

She moved away from me, meekly 
silent. Presently I heard her softly 
opening the treasure-drawer. I would 
not look at her. In another minute 
something pink and vapory shimmered 
across my face. Aurora pushed me 
up to the mirror, clasping her hands 
with silent admiration. I looked at 
my reflection with the pink chiffon 
floating over my shoulders. It was 

Aurora darted back to the drawer 
and returned with a rosy wealth of 
taffeta. "Of course you know that it 
goes along with the chiffon for an 
under-waist. Oh, Patsy, won't you 
follow him?" 

"Yes," I answered shamelessly, 
"I will." 

"And now," said Aurora, when noon 
of the following day arrived, ' ' now that 
I am ready to go down, it can't be more 
than an hour before I shall have re- 
fused him, and you can follow him." 
She tipped the mirror and dabbed her 
little nose with a bit of powdered 

"But how am I to know when it's 
all over?" I complained. 

"I've thought of that; he may get 
rattled, and not come to the point at 
all,— though I think he will." She 
gave a dangerous little smile. "If he 

doesn't propose, I'll walk out to the 
gate with him, and if I've refused him, 
he'll come out alone." 

"And I'm to sit here on an up-stairs 
veranda in the sun and peek at the 
front gate all afternoon!" 

Aurora looked at me reproachfully. 
Then she flew off and presently re- 
turned with some magazines and a 
box of candy. The box was shut. I 
saw why afterwards; she had eaten ev- 
erything up but the squashy, violet- 
colored things that nobixly likes! 

He left at last, alone, and I sneaked 
out after him, feeling like a pickpocket. 
It was after two when I got back, and 
Aurora was waiting at the gate for me 
with dancing eyes. 

"What did he do, Patsy?" she called 
out. "Tell me, quick." 

I faced her with stolid, silent disap- 
proval. She dragged me in, and push- 
ing me down at the lunch table, pro- 
ceeded to heap a plate with flitters 
and chops. 

"Don't," I said wearily, "I've 

She paused incredulously, plate mid- 
air. "Do you mean to say that you 
haven't followed him, Patricia Hay- 
good, when I've cut that chiffon to 
your forty measure, and I'm thirty- 

"I followed him." 

"Then where did you get lunch?" 

"I lunched with him at the St. 
Charles," I answered meekly. 

She set down the plate, staring 
round-eyed and unbelieving. At 
length she began to dimple, and finally 
her lips curved deliriously. 

"What are you laughing at?" 

"Why, the mental picture — the con- 
solation banquet — funeral meats, you 
know. Did he 'twirl his glass of 
absinthe retrospectively?' — no, begin 
where he left the gate. Did he 'go up 
the street with bent head and uncer- 
tain steps?'" 

"No," I said, "he didn't." 

She nodded comprehendingly. 
"Pride sustained him," she murmured, 
"he 'stifled the mighty wave of an- 
guish that was sweeping over him, 
crushing, insistent, and walked down 
the street with erect head and spring- 
ing steps, determined that at least she 

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should not see' — you know I was look- 
ing through the parlor blinds," she 
broke off quoting this idiotic harangue 
to make her outrageous confession 
unblushingly. "Well, is that the way 
he did?" 


"Then what did he do? I know! 
'Wilmerton' — that's the name of the 
man in the story — 'Wilmerton left her 
house blindly. He must get away 
from it, he must walk — run' — " 

"Fly," I interrupted. "No, that 
wasn't it." 

"Then what did he do, Patsy?" 
Aurora put her elbows on the table and 
resting her chin upon her upturned 
palms, regarded me with anticipatory 

"He ran after a street car, and 
missed it." 

"Then what?" 

"Why, whistled and waved his hat." 

She looked disgusted. "And then? 
Did it stop?" 



"Well, he said 'Damn.'" 

Her face cleared. "Oh," she said 
thoughtfully, ' ' he must have been very 
angry with me to be so profane, Patsy." 

"Maybe so." 

"What did he do next?" 

"Walked in to Canal Street." 

"What did he do on Canal Street?" 

"He went into a saloon," I an- 
nounced pitilessly. 

She looked remorseful. "I drove 
him to that, Patsy. Did he come 


"And then?" 

"Lit a cigar." 

"And then? Go on, Patsy!" 

"Then he saw the McPherson girls, 
and stopped them." (The McPher- 
sons were stunning.) 

Aurora shook her head. "They are 
so coarse looking," she said regretfully. 
"I've embittered him, dear. He will 
never go with nice, swell girls like us 
again. What did he say to the Mc- 
Phersons, Patsy?" 

"Well, Aurora, you don't think I 
trotted up and butted in, do you?" 

"No-o, of course not, but you might 
have passed and listened/" 

"I couldn't. He took them into a 
candy place. Then I passed. He was 
giving them some ice-cream, and the 
shop girl was wrapping up some 

She was silent. 

"Then they came out," I went on. 
"He put them on the car, and gave 
them the ten-pound — " 


"Ten-pound box of Huyler's—" 

"The idea! Men never give girls 
so much candy — it's abominable!" 

"Well, have it your own way." 

She flushed and tapped her foot. 
"Then he stood on a corner and waited 
for the next lot of girls, I suppose." 

"No, he saw me." 

"Oh, you!" 

"Yes; and insisted upon my going 
to lunch with him." 

"What did you have?" she asked 

"Oh, I don't know— everything. 
Lobster & la Newburg, and Harvard 
salad — orange ice — everything," I re- 
peated indifferently. 

"Patricia Haygood, he never gave 
me a lunch as nice as that in his life!" 

"No?" I cried in astonishment. 

"No, he didn't!' Her eyes were 
blazing. "What did you talkabout?" 
she demanded. 


"Oh — oh — of course, he was trying 
to pump you. How stupid of me! 
What did he say, Patsy?" 

"He said that you had just refused 

"Yes?" eagerly. 

"And that he liked you—" 


"Yes; liked you ever so much, and 
was awfully sorry. He said that he 
guessed he ought to tell me that he 
would rather marry you than anybody 
he knew." 

"Well! Was that all?" 



"He was sorry, but that after a year 
or two of married life romance wore 
off, and it had been his observation 
that the sentiments of man and wife 
for one another generally rationalized 
into a comfortable mutual adjust- 

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"Rationalized into a comfortable, 
mutual adjustment?" 

"Enabling them to jog along very 
peaceably in spite of one another." 

"Did he say that?" 

"Yes. He said that he supposed 
that after a year or more it wouldn't 
make any difference to him whom he 
had married ; that it didn't make much 
difference now, except that he preferred 
you because you were more aesthetic- 
ally pleasing than most girls, and of 
a very cheerful and equable tempera- 
ment, calculated to be wholesome." 

"Calculated to be wholesome f" 
she sprang up and faced me, flaming. 

"Well, Aurora, I couldn't help his 
saying it." 

"No-o. Well, go on; was there 
anything else?" 

"Yes. You won't be mad, 

"Oh, no; what do I care?" There 
were stinging tears in her eyes, but 
she turned her head and tapped a 
spoon on the table with fine indiffer- 

"He said that if I could bring my- 
self not to care about his having pre- 
ferred you, he was sure that it would 
soon wear off, and that he would be 
glad if I would be his wife." 

Aurora dropped her spoon, and 
stooped to pick it up. "Anything 
more?" came in a stifled tone from 
under the table. 

"Yes." I was merciless. "When 
I said that I would give him his 
answer to-night — " 

The yellow fluff of Aurora's hair 
popped up over the edge of the table 
like an indignant dandelion. ' ' Do you 
mean to say, Patricia Haygood, that 
he's got the indecency to come here 

"Why not?" I retorted huffily. 
"You rejected him, and he is abso- 
lutely free to propose to me." 

She was silent. I expected a scath- 
ing retort squelching me for taking her 
leavings, but none came. 

"What was that he said," she asked 
presently, "when you told him you'd 
give him an answer to-night? Not 
that I care ! But it's all so ridiculous ! " 

"He said," I retorted calmly, "that 
the more he thought about the possi- 

bility of my 'Yes,' the less he cared 
about your 'No.'" 

Aurora's little furious pink face went 
very white. "Thank you, dear," she 
said quietly. 

I gathered up my bag and gloves 
and started for my room. 

"Pat— Patricia?" 


She looked at me helplessly. "I — 
we've — we've got to get out and pay 
those calls this afternoon," she said 
desperately. It was a pathetic at- 
tempt at indifference, but I was not 
yet done with her. 

"Dear me, no," I said, consciously. 
"Why, he's coming at seven, and I 
want a nap so I can look fresh! By 
the way, dear, don't let his being here 
keep you from coming down." 

Aurora fired up like an angry honey- 
bee. "I should think I won't!" she 
cried. "Do you suppose that I am 
going to mope upstairs all evening as if 
I were heart broken ? Do you suppose 
I'm going to let him think that I'm 
too drowned in tears to appear?" 

I made no reply. I hadn't supposed 
it. I knew Aurora. And she appeared ! 
She always wore soft things in the 
evening, but I doubt if Mr. Humphreys 
himself ever saw her as she looked that 
night. She had on a pale green, close- 
fitting thing, with a long train, and 
white chiffon like sea-foam about 
the low bodice. She was as cool and 
dainty as a flower, save for the flaming 
little golden head, and the two angry, 
pink spots in her cheeks. 

I had flattered myself that I looked 
well in my white ptquS skirt and thin 
waist — but after that! There was no 
use surrendering until need be; I put 
all the Gibson in my hair I could when 
I arranged it, and even assumed a 
certain Gibson hauteur of marble com- 
posure that — well, that had been slight- 
ly disconcerting to several men on 
several occasions. 

Aurora was walking up and down 
the piazza in the moonlight when Mr. 
Humphreys came. He shook hands 
with her, and I heard him ask, "Is 
your cousin in?" 

"Yes. She's expecting you; she'll 
be down in a minute." 

He sat down. 

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"Shall I call her?" Aurora urged 

"Why, if you like." 

1 ' If she liked ! " I shut the window 
with a snap (under the circumstances 
I had a right to peep) and ran down 
stairs. The little minx was getting in 
her work already. She had tinned on 
the light, hoping that he would stare 
at her, I suppose. Well, he did ; if it 
was any satisfaction to her, although 
I must say I don't see what men find 
to go so crazy over in little toy- 
women like Aurora! 

As I passed the dining room on my 
way to the porch, Aunt Chrystie 
called to me: "Patsy, has Aurora got 
a shawl around her?" 

"No," I said gleefully, "she hasn't." 

"Well, tell her to come in and get it." 

I went out on the porch and shook 
hands with Mr. Humphreys. He evi- 
dently didn't wish Aurora to feel 
slighted for his attentions to me, for 
he continued to stare at her politely; 
he even complimented her dress. 

I paused under the electric light; 
it always shows my profile to such 
good advantage to contrast it with 
my dark hair in strong light. He 
didn't look at me, so I spoke to Aurora. 

"Rory, dear," — she hates forme to 
call her Rory ; it makes people associate 
her with cooking — ' ' Rory, dear, Auntie 
wishes you to wear your shawl." 

Mr. Humphreys looked at her bare 
shoulders with polite concern. 

"Shall I get your shawl?" he said. 
(He wished her to think that he was 
still interested in her welfare.) 

"It is upstairs," she said, laughing 
up at him, "so you can't. Patsy, dear," 
she added carelessly, without looking 
at me, "it's on the corner of my dress- 
ing table." 

Now how was that for impertinence? 

"Is that so?" I said with polite sur- 
prise. "Then you haven't far to go, 
Rory, dear." 

"And if you'll just get it for me, 
Patsy, dear," she went on as though 
I had not spoken, "I'll be ever so 
such obliged to you." 

Nice way to treat a visiting cousin, 
wasn't it ? But Mr. Humphreys should 
see that I, at least, was good natured. 
I departed to get the shawl, and when 
I got back my chicken was gone ! 

In a corner of the lawn and well in 
the shadow of some magnolias, fringing 
a neighbor's fence, I saw one of Au- 
rora's pretty shoulders, glimmering 
through a screen of dark leaves, and 
a white flash of her long, pale gown. 
Her waist was obscured by a broad 
girdle of black about the size of Mr. 
Humphrey's arm, and her head was 
gone altogether! 

Well, let her put her face on his 
breast at last, dear little willful Aurora ! 
What will she say when she knows 
how I really followed him? Poor, big 
fellow, will he tell her how I came face 
to face with him, and saw him staring 
into a grocer's window on a pyramid 
of canned soup, with tears in his eyes 
that all the pepper in the condensed 
beverages could never have produced? 
Will he tell her how I made him recite 
to me, word for word, all the wicked 
things she had said and done? And 
will he tell her of how at the end I un- 
folded this beautiful plan for making 
her come to terms? But I hope he 
won't tell her! Some girls can be won 
by a man's making a door-mat of him- 
self, and lying meekly prone to be 
trampled; but I am told that the 
native women of Australia make very 
satisfactory wives, and the warrior's 
method of wooing there is to knock 
them down with a club. 

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By Harriet Hobson Dougherty 

THE assertion has frequently existence, and thus it was for many 
been made that Henry Timrod years in the war-swept section wherein 
and Paul Hamilton Hayne these poets lived and worked, 
were never appreciated in Paid Hamilton Hayne was born in 
their own section, and by their own South Carolina's beautiful city by the 
people as their genius deserved. This sea in 1830, and came of such goodly 
statement is not only a mistake but is ancestry that his family was regarded 
a very unjust charge as well, for the as both ancient and distinguished, even 
sorrows that filled the lives of these in proud old Charleston, which was 
gifted singers, as well as their ex- noted throughout the South in those 
quisite poems, have given them a days for its pride, its exclusiveness and 
place in the hearts of their 
people that no other Ameri- 
can writers ever held. The 
sad fact that recognition 
of their genius came, in the 
one instance too late,_ and 
in the other only af ter'long 
years of heart-breaking 
struggle, was entirely due 
to those inexplicable ca- 
prices of fate which have 
scattered so many tragedies 
along the paths trod by the 
makers of the world's best 

That recognition came 
slowly was in no wise 
the fault of the South- 
ern people, for they were 
living the tragedies of 
which these poets sang, 
and in their desperate 
struggles to wrest a bare 
sustenance from the devas- 
tated land — to beat back 
the gaunt wolf of starva- 
tion, showing its bare fangs 
at their very hearthstones 
—they had neither the 
time, the money nor the 
heart for any of the beauti- 
ful things of life. Some- 
times there is nothing men 
can do but battle with 

brutish tenacity for mere paul Hamilton baynb 


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its wealth. A long and noble line was 
behind our poet, the Haynes having 
lived for centuries at Hayne Hall, a 
splendid mansion in Shropshire, Eng- 
land, while each succeeding generation 
of the family in the New World added 
fresh luster to a name that brilliant 
statesmen and dashing soldiers had 
rendered famous on both sides of the 

The Colonial mansion where the poet 
grew to manhood was one of the hand- 
somest in the old dty, and filled to 
overflowing with a rare collection of 
books and paintings, for centuries of 
perfect taste, coupled with vast wealth, 
had combined to make of the Hayne 
home a veritable art treasure house. 
Amid these beautiful surroundings, and 
under the constant guidance of a rarely 
cultured mother, it is not to be won- 
dered at that the boy's heart and mind, 
indeed his whole beauty-loving, highly 
attuned nature, turned towards poetry 
and art, and it came as no surprise to 
his friends when, on leaving college, 
he avowed his intention of devoting 
his entire future to literature. 

Nowhere in all the world is the sky 
as blue, the air as fragrant, as in 
Charleston. In no other spot on this 
vast continent can be found such a 
water view as that splendid harbor, 
where the great Cooper and the beauti- 
ful Ashley rivers flow around the point 
of the Battery, meet, dash their dainty 
white caps skyward in merry greeting, 
and then go rolling and tossing out to 
be lost in the ocean, beating its cease- 
less requiem on the sands of Sullivan's 
Island. Over the blue waters of this 
wonderful harbor the young poet 
floated for long hours at a time in his 
boat, sometimes alone but for his 
beautiful dreams and the nature he 
loved so well — of tener with the somber 
gray eyes of his life-long friend, Henry 
Timrod, facing him. 

From his early youth Hayne was 
an omnivorous reader, making the 
greatest thoughts of the greatest 
writers of all times his own. This was 
with no desire to imitate them, for he 
was wise enough to know that so-called 
"style" is merely individuality finding 
outward expression, and is a spon- 

taneous growth, that matures best 
when let alone. Thus it is, that while 
we find in his poems occasional lines 
as quaint as any ever penned by whim- 
sical old Geoffrey Chaucer, followed by 
a breath from the spicy pine woods that 
recalls the Sage of Rydal Mount, with 
it all, and above it all, we find Hayne, 
for from first to last he was himself, 
the real expression of his great art 
ever coming from within. 

For years our poet wrote, his first 
book being published before he was 
twenty-five, two others that followed 
during the next few years winning 
such success that before his thirtieth 
year his cup was filled to overflowing 
with everything that goes to make 
life worth living — a splendid home, 
wealth, social position, youth and 
fame — it would seem that there was 
nothing left for him to ask at the 
hands of fate. 

Then came the war. Like all South 
Carolinians Hayne loved his native 
State, his beautiful, tragic old home 
city, with a passionate devotion, and 
the pen was at once laid aside for the 
sword. The hell that war must ever 
be to a nature as finely attuned as 
was his, is something impossible to 
describe. The unutterable horrors 
around him went far deeper than the 
heart — they gnawed their way beyond 
even the soul of him, and penetrated 
the delicate spirit, until his health 
failed utterly, and in spite of his vigor- 
ous protests, he was ordered home. 
And then it was that the frail fingers 
took up the pen, and the indomitable 
heart sent out those war poems. "My 
Mother-Land," "Stuart," "Charles- 
ton," and "Our Martyrs," that rang 
throughout the Southland like a clarion 
call to arms. 

After Appomattox, when so many 
towering hopes went down to rise no 
more, Hayne returned to Charleston 
to meet a scene of utter desolation. 
The proud, beautiful old city was in 
ruins, her people impoverished, while 
of the friends he had been wont to 
meet every day hardly one was left. 
He had watched many fall on bloody 
fields, others slept beneath the blue 
waters of the beautiful harbor he had 

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once loved so well, close to the shat- 
tered walls of old Sumter. 

Only a brief while did our poet 
linger amid these ruins, then feeling 
that he could not take up the broken 
threads of his life there, he went away 
forever, and found a home amid the 
pine barrens of Georgia. And there, 
on top of a bleak hill, the man 
who had been reared in one of the 
proudest homes of the old South built 
him a tiny cottage of rough boards. 
A plain carpenter's bench by a tiny 
latticed window took the place of the 
great library where he had been wont 
to work, and amid the flowers brought 
from the old home, and planted by the 
"little brown hand" of her who had 
been the blessing and inspiration of 
his whole life, he faced a future that 
at first seemed all darkness. 

Paul Hamilton Hayne was a brave 
soid, and soon he took up his pen again, 
and lo ! the child of genius had indeed 
come into his birthright, for there 
were no false notes now, — the hand 
with which he swept his harp was 
the firm, sure one of the master. 
The words that had been the exquisite- 
ly polished output of a rarely cultured 
mind before now throbbed with the 
beat of a soul, and of a soul that had 
suffered and striven and well-nigh 
died, then risen again, strong and 
serene, prepared at last to give to the 
world the best that it had. 

Years of struggle followed, for suc- 
cess is coy and ever comes slowly, but 
it came at last, full measure, packed 
down and running over, and the ex- 
quisite verses of the gentle recluse of 
Copse Hill were seen in every maga- 
zine of note in this country, and even 
found their way abroad. His fellow 
laborers held out friendly hands, 
gladly giving his work their approval, 
and as the years went by the little 
home amid the Georgia pines became 
the Mecca towards which the footsteps 
of famous men of letters from all over 
the world were turned. 

This recognition of his work was 
very precious to the poet, but there 
was something else that the years 
brought him that was even dearer still. 
There were others who found their 
way to his quiet retreat besides the 

happy and successful, for it was to 
Hayne that Timrod went when despair 
clutched him in its fell grasp. There, 
too, poor, broken Simms found the 
rest and the sympathy he needed in 
his last years, and later on Sidney 
Lanier, battling so bravely for the art 
he loved so well, poured out his whole 
heart to this gentle man, who, having 
gone a sorrowful way himself, now 
looked back, calling out words of hope 
and good cheer to those who were 
following. These heavy calls on his 
sympathy would have exhausted a 
weaker man sorely, but our "Poet 
Laureate of the South" possessed a 
bountiful nature, one that seemed to 
grow the richer and deeper the more 
generously he gave. And he gave 
royally to all who came his way, not 
only of his time and of his worldly 
goods, but better and beyond that, 
he gave of himself. 

Hayne's poems fill a large volume 
of four hundred pages. They are all 
singularly beautiful, and are filled with 
the spicy breath of his beloved pines, 
the thrilling song of the mocking bird, 
the rich perfume of tropic flowers — 
all, in fact, that goes to make up the 
beauty of the Southern forest, for he 
is essentially the poet of the South, and 
especially of his own section. His 
"Ante-Bellum Charleston" is a book 
rich in historic lore, while his life of 
Henry Timrod is one of the most beau- 
tiful tributes ever paid by one noble, 
generous soul to the worth of another. 

The last years of our poet's life were 
filled with a long and gallant struggle 
against ill health, but though the 
frail body was often racked with pain, 
no note of bitterness ever found its 
way into the songs he sent out into the 
world. It has been most truly written 
of him that 

No selfish aim, 
Guided one thought of all those trying hours : 

No breath of pride, 
No pompous striving for the pose of fame, 
Weakened one stroke of all his noble powers. 

On July 6, 1886, Paul Hamilton 
Hayne laid aside his pen forever, and 
in his death not only the South, but 
the world as well, lost one of the most 
gifted writers, and gentlest souls that 
this country has ever produced. 

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"When God oonoefoed the world, that wae poetry; He formed it, that wee eeulpture; He colored it, end 
that wae painting; He peopled it with living being*, end that wme the grand, divine, eternal drama." — Char- 
lotte Cuthman. 

Miss MacDonald's delightful voice the music is a refreshing variation 

and pleasing personality never had from the hackneyed musical forms, 

a better vehicle than the musical The Mexicans are a music-loving peo- 

comedy "Mexicana," which has pie, and their music abounds with 


proven an unusual success among the 
many comic opera offerings of the 
season. In choosing Mexico for the 
scene the librettist, Miss Clara Driscoll, 
selected a field that presents novel and 
picturesque features hitherto unused. 
The peculiar settings and costumes 
of this tropical country furnish excuse 
for magnificent staging, the combina- 
tion of the Spanish and English lan- 
guages forms the comedy element and 

pronounced national characteristics. 
Raymond Hubbell, composer of the 
score, has caught the true rythm of 
the fandango and castanets. The 
ensembles are gorgeous and kaleido- 
scopic, reflecting the changeful, vivid 
hues produced by the Southern sun. 
The play simply abounds in choruses of 
pretty girls — cowboy girls in som- 
breros and leather clothes, flower girls 
with their fragrant wares, peasant or 

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peon girls in the artistic national dress, 
and lovely, gracious, silvery-voiced 
girls of high degree, in flowing gauzes 
and lace headdress. Miss MacDonald, 
in the part of a humble pottery vender, 
in love with the leader of a revolution- 

and is admirably sustained by the rest 
of the cast. 

A play of a different kind is "Julie 
Bonbon/' whose leading woman, Clara 
Lipman, is its author. Julie is a milli- 


ary jband, finds scope for her excep- 
tional versatility in the three acts, her 
assumption of male attire to save her 
lover being especially well handled. 
Thomas Q. Seabrooke, as the Wall 
Street broker,, who goes to*]Mexico to 
buy a mine and is mistaken for the 
revolutionist, fills his rdle to perfection 

ner, with a sot father who would sell 
her to a wealthy old man. Her lover 
is also of the fashionable, wealthy set, 
and his mother tries every means of 
preventing his marriage to the daugh- 
ter of the drunken reprobate. Perhaps 
the funniest episode in the comedy is 
the scene between the respective par- 

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ents. Poujol, Julie's father, calls 
upon Mrs. Van Brunt. He is ushered 
into the library and sits for a few mo- 
ments stupidly unobservant. Then 
he becomes aware that there are de- 
canters of wine on a small table. An 

furtive gusto. Then he has an inspira- 
tion. From his pocket he draws a 
cheap flask which still contains a thim- 
bleful of whisky. This he gulps 
hastily and from Mrs. Van Brunt's 
decanter fills his own bottle and re- 


expression of joy suffuses his features. 
Slowly he walks to the table and gazes 
upon the liquid. Then he takes up 
the bottle, resists the temptation to 
taste, puts it down, grasps it lovingly 
again and with great caution pours 
a glassful, which he drinks with 

turns it to his pocket. When Mrs. 
Van Brunt appears Poujol is awaiting 
her in apparent stupidity. The scene 
offers an excellent opportunity for 
pantomime character delineation and 
Mr. Mann improves it to the fullest 

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QWf" P* "*3* «T^RNAI, CITY" 

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"The Eternal City" has had a most 
prosperous Southern tour, the attend- 
ance in many places breaking the 
record of all previous crowds. Jane 

"Brown, of Harvard," sketches in 
lively fashion the joys and gayeties 
of college life and even jaded theater- 
goers find its sprightly incidents and 


Ktinmark met with great favor as 
leading woman, and Ralph Kellard, 
in the character of Don Camillo Mu- 
rillo, showed unusual ability and 
understanding in his sympathetic de- 
lineation of a trying character. 

college slang refreshing. There are 
glimpses of student sanctums, flirta- 
tions with the maidens of the town, 
college songs galore, and an extremely 
strong last act, in which Laura Hope 
Crews shines to fine advantage. 

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By Leonora Beck Ellis 

HPOET and we went holidaying 
There was little count of 
the first day and night on the 
thundering train which swept us 
swiftly through the northern part of 
our State. 

But when we reached Happy Valley 
we found ourselves keenly alive to 

"It cannot be midsummer!" cried 
the Poet, looking out with delighted 
eyes. "We are a-Maying." 

For the fields were blightless and 
tenderly green, the woods vernal, the 
flowers dewy, and the gay little stream 
which sang down the valley was un- 
quaffed of summer heat. 

"Not even the mountains can allure 
us now," the Poet exclaimed again, 
as each moment unfolded fresh charms 
of the widening scene. "Call a 'halt, 
for we must camp in Happy Valley." 

But we drew our rods together, gave 
a few turns to the reels, and shook our 
heads in protest. His hand was on his 
grip-sack, when the better and more 

tactful half of us said: "Poet, you 
cannot hasten destiny. Wait for 

From Happy Valley to Cloudland 
is a journey made all our dream- 
days, but seldom in world-conscious 
hours. But we made it that morning 
with wide-open eyes. 

Our gaze was still on the shining 
green of the valley fields, and the 
rippling waters of sweet Watauga, 
forgetful now of some wilder moods 
we had known her in, when a sudden 
moment's darkness swooped upon us; 
we were pushing our way through a 
tunnel, that ingress which man's in- 
trusive daring has forced into the 
mountain's privacy. 

The day was at its full meridian as 
we burst into the most magnificent 
cafion, probably, that can be seen this 
side of the Grand, in the Rockies. A 
precipice of straight lines on our left 
sprang boldly up in a leap that carried 
it more than a thousand feet towards 
the arching blue above. It rose as 
sheerly and as suddenly as if it had 

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but that moment essayed to reach the 
heavens. The effect upon us was 
deeper than any words are made to go, 
and the Poet only leaned tensely, with 
heavy breathing, against his window, 
looking,. no doubt, to discern a Titan 
here or yonder at play, perhaps, yet 
it might be at battle. She and I 
clasped hands in the silence of awe. 
How should we speak when a poet 

oadway and those 

des, which moved 

miles, yet sinking 

e as we advanced, 

at gorge, torn there, 

one must have said, in magnificent 

adequacy for a tremendous torrent. 

Yet through it there rippled only a 

gentle, playful, scarcely rollicking, 

little stream. How came the tiny, 

peaceful River Doe to have lot amid 

such scenes ? we asked. Happy Valley 

would have been a fitter setting for 

its placid prettiness. 

It seemed as perplexing as life that 
such cataclysms should have heaved 
the massed mountains, such Titanic 
forces have ploughed this vast furrow 
in the earth's bosom, merely 
to make the cradle of an 
insignificant rivulet. 

This was our early 
thought, but transmuted 
by mutations in the 

The roadbed of the nar- 
row-gauge railway which 
leads into these North Caro- 
lina Highlands shows itself 
at this point as a fine 
achievement of modern me- 
chanical power. For miles 
it had to be made by cut- 
ting a niche for it out of the 
solid rocks, fifty feet above 
the Doe, on its left bank. 
And it is here that the 
stream proves itself more 
worthy of its setting. 

For, clinging to the dizzy 
edge of our own precipice 
and gazing across to an- 
other, vastly more impos- 
ing, we were whirled 
through the carton, now 
past ringing rapids, now 

angry cataracts, or again deep, mys- 
terious pools. Past the most colos- 
sal structures of Nature's masonry 
we still swept on — towers, cathedrals, 
temples, battlements, and domes all 
wrought in majesty, sublimity. 

But the grandeur softened into 
beauty wherever the yellow azaleas, 
crimson carnations, native to these 
highlands, and pink and white rho- 
dodendrons, showed their richness 
against the nearing ledges and ter- 
races. The exquisite mountain flow- 
ers were in their fullness of bloom, for 
August is their prodigal spring-tide. 

Just when we had begun to feel 
overtaxed with sublime effects to 
which we were scarcely adequate, the 
pjalisades receded, by gentle grada- 
tions, finally vanishing, but to leave 
slighter, ^Jmore scattered peaks or 
ridges to^climb away from the Doe, 
which we were still pursuing toward 
its grottoed source. 

Our roadway soon reached a broader 
and safer level'although the cliffs on 
our right hand hugged us close, some- 
times bringing the plumy ferns, rosy 
mountain laurel, and shining galax 


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leaves fairly to our grasp. Another 
hour and the scene had tamed. We 
passed Roan Mountain, drew up to 
Elk Park, and, leaving it behind, 
moved on to Cranberry, where we took 
stage for the sky-built inn of Eseeola, 
fifteen miles away, across the Blue 
Ridge chain. 

Staging in the mountains of North 
Carolina marks one of those degrees 
of delight by which a work-weary 
or pleasure-weary mortal is prepared 
for the full enchantment of his 
weeks or months in the Land of the 

We drove out of Cranberry by a 
sufficiently commonplace road, length- 
ening the hour of relaxation we had 
from our higher and tenser mood. 


But it was not long before we found 
ourselves ascending, in two senses. 
Gazing across the lazy old Fields of 
Toe, wondering at their curious, ro- 
mantic, absurd, yet pathetic history, 
we vaguely noted beyond them the 
mountains towards which we were cir- 
cling. Our road bent to cross the Toe, 
formerly Esetoe, and the Other One of 
us leaned over to point out excitedly 
how the trout were scurrying from the 
peaceful cow wading in to cool her 
hoofs in the shallow stream. 

Then our driveway began to climb 
in earnest, and the Poet's eyes com- 
menced to shine again, and his breath 
to come with deeper inspirations. 

Steadily upward our stage crawled, 
the air growing finer, more exhilarating 
all the time, while laurel, myrtle and 

rhododendron began to crowd their 
pink and cream wealth against our 
very wheels. But again this growth 
would thin, making way for the co- 
lumnar pines, the bowery chestnut- 
oaks, which would part, too, to give 
us enchanting views downward into 
the beautiful Carolina valleys. 

More than once we passed a bald, 
bleak hillside, where some mountain 
lord had chosen a tornado-wasted or 
fire-scathed spot to stretch his fruitless 
fields and build his stronghold of hem- 
lock logs. Once we skirted along a 
little pocket or cove, niched out when 
a ridge looped , back on itself, and 
found where the highlanders' thrift 
and taste had built a tiny white 
cottage and surrounded it with a neat 
yard and garden 
to shut out the 
encroaching wild- 

"Love and 
happiness may 
well dwell there," 
said She of my 
heart, pointing to 
the cot. 

The Poet nod- 
ded. " Yes, veri- 
ly; and even in 
those more primi- 
tive shelters we 
have passed. For 
vallby liberty of every 

sort abides fast 
in the mountains, and strength of 
human feeling goes with liberty. 

Our driver was winding his horn, 
and the wreathed echoes were float- 
ing off into the shadows of a hemlock 
forest we were suddenly entering. 
Straightway, in the solemn shadows, 
the echoes seemed to lose their merri- 
ment, as the sunshine had been already 
lost, and we found ourselves peering, 
serious-eyed, into the dense glooms, 
seeking the strange things that such 
a wood must be made for. 

Perhaps the Poet was the only one 
of us not wholly glad when the rho- 
dodendrons began to show again along 
our driveway, and the hemlocks, re- 
ceding, left full sunshine on the 
It was then that we observed the 

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re-appearance of a tiny stream which 
had played about our road some miles 
back, but left us, as if afraid to follow, 
when we reached the hemlock deeps. 

"That is the Linn river," the driver 
explained. "If you have come for 
sport you will catch the finest moun- 
tain and rainbow trout in the world 
out of that very water." 

She of my heart looked dismayed. 

"That a river? 1 she exclaimed. 
"It is nothing but a spring-branch, 
and I can't believe it is big enough to 
hold anything but minnWs. Surely 
that isn't all you 
have to fish in?" 

For she had 
helped me land 
a tarpon on the 
Florida coast, 
and a muscal- 
longe on a Cana- 
dian lake shore. 
Yet, neither had 
she forgotten 
the graylings 
we had found 
one summer, 
how small and 
delicately beau- 
tiful they were, 
but the gamest 
fish we had ever 
cast for. 

"The gray 
beauties are 
cousins to the 
trout we have 
come here to 
catch, my dear," 

I went on, "and in thb chasm 

these trout can 

thrive only in the shallowest', purest 
streams." Besides, you must remem- 
ber that the Linn will have more 
volume and breadth by the time we 
reach our sporting grounds." 

When we climbed our last height 
before Eseeola, and gazed far up the 
shallow indentation which could 
scarcely be called a valley, to Linn- 
ville Gap, we could discern solemn 
Grandfather and pinnacled Dunvegan 
on either hand. The stage halted at 
this point to give us the full effectjof 
the magnificent view. I haveTnever 
seen its superior for picturesque charm 

and abundance of detail, yet all 
touched with majesty. 

But our driver again wound his 
horn, touched up his span, and we 
were once more following a road 
through the hemlocks, though this 
time but a slight wood, not a deep 

In a few minutes we rounded a 
sudden curve through jungly laurel, 
and caught our first glimpse of pretty 
Eseeola, perched saucily on a bold 
ridge commanding the vale, or rather 
glen, of the river Linn, no longer a 
gurgling brook, 
but now a brawl- 
ing, though lim- 
p i d mountain 
stream, of fair 
current and, in 
its pools, of con- 
siderable depth. 
Nature was in 
one of her 
moods when she 
grooved out that 
little niche for 
E s e e o 1 a-o n- 

The Poet told 
me that Nature 
spoke thus be- 
fore she formed 
this spot : 

"I will fash- 
ion one spot 
where the pleas- 
ure lover, man 
" lover, or lover 
of me, the health 
seeker, beauty seeker, science seeker, 
poet, painter or sportsman, or the 
wanderer pursuing all vaguely, may 
come together, and each be more than 
satisfied." Nature sometimes fails of 
her aims, but she failed not there, 
in the scented shades of Balsam 

"Poet," I said, on the morning after 
our arrival, "will you^go fishing with 
us to-day?" 

He looked past me, or through me, 
with no disdain, only a^fine oblivion. 
Then, gathering his pencils and'scroll, 
he moved lightly on his way towards 

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a tamarack-furnished, galax-carpeted 
slope, where the morning sunlight fell 

"Leave him alone!" murmured a 
more reverential half of us, plucking 
at my sleeve. "Only everyday 
people Jlike you and me go fishing. 
He hasjbetter things to do." 

With no" time for envy or spirit for 
scorn, If hastened to gather up our 
rods andjreels, with my wading boots 
and hers, while She took the camera, 


and we followed an opposite path from • 

"An ideal morning for Mrs. Rain- 
bow's sun-parlor," She gaily exclaimed, 
after a few minutes' brisk Talking 
through air just sufficiently rarefied 
to make our beings light and our 
spirits ethereal. 

We had come perhaps three hun- 
dred yards down a picturesque path, 
bordered with houstonias, azaleas, 
and the ever-present mountain roses, 
before we reached a rustic bridge over 
the Linn. Here, when I paused a 
moment to look up and down stream, 
fairly embarrassed with the prodi- 

gality of opportunity, while exhilara- 
ted, too, by the wealth of beautiful 
and romantic scenery lavished on the 
spot, She stepped on, led by a certain 
newly acquired sophistication in trout 
habits. She has always been my 
mascot, and so I meekly followed her 
leading. Besides, had She not talked 
an hour, the previous evening, with 
the Champion of Eseeola, him of the 
the seven-summers' reputation for 
eighteen-inchers, heavy-doubles, and 
per-diems averaging in 
the # forties? Well might 
he know, whether or not 
he cared to tell, end- 
less secrets of the morn- 
ing sun-parlors, afternoon 
retreats, and twilight tea- 
corners, of the entire Rain- 
bow family, and indeed all 
the speckled clan. 

She passed by the deeper 
pools and shadier banks, 
choosing at last a fine open 
space, where the river 
broadened greatly, the lim- 
pid water being diffused in 
thin sheets over its pebbly 
bottom, and sweeping 
lightly across the smooth 
stones sunk in its bed, or 
jetting in diamond eddies 
around the loose-strewn 
boulders. Here the hem- 
locks and jungly laurels 
on either bank had receded 
far, yielding the sun free 
play on the entire current. 
Brave in wading boots, 
She clambered from boul- 
der to boulder, until her fancy was 
satisfied with a station in mid-stream. 
Then, bending and peering this way 
and that, she suddenly cried under 
her breath, and reaching out to me 
for her rod. 

"Give it to me, quick! They are 
feeding on the ripple!" 

My eyes had already caught a gleam 
and sparkle that was not of the water. 
Both rods and lines were ready, and 
we cast togther. 

There was a rise, a strike at her fly 
first, and She gave a premature little 
scream, but the moment's tautness 
was gone, and her line fell to normal.. 

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Before I was through with my teas- through the whole morning She of my 

ing laugh, She bent precariously for- life was excited and happy no less 

ward, with flashing eyes but no scream than I. 

now. How her reel sang! And She But the Poet? Can you ask, when 

played his ' gaminess with splendid he was dreaming and singing with his 

skifi and spirit, until she was able to heart under the balsam and tamarack, 

land the finest rainbow I ever saw a halo of rainbows about his head 

east of California. and his spirit afloat in the ether of 

There were other episodes, and Skyland? 


Tis sacred mould~that~rests above thee, here, 

Oh, tuneful Hayne, song-spirit of the pines! 
Though dust thy form, thy praises still ring clear 

In matins from the song birds 'mongst the vines. 

Thy voice is in the breeze that thro' the leaves 

Steals softly 'neath a summer's evening sky, 
Or fans the mosses clinging 'round the eaves 

Of old thatched cabins, where the pine cones lie. 

Thy spirit, o'er the woodland pools, at eve, 

Still hovers in its love and sympathy; 
And where the gull her storm-wrecked nest doth grieve, ' 

Old ocean chants a mem'ry dirge to thee. 

'Twas solitude that most allured thy soul, 
Where unleashed Nature held her pristine sway, 

Unmarred by aught that marks ambition's scroll 
Or placards worldly traffic's tense highway. 

For thee, the stream in numbers murmured low, 
In numbers fell the moon-shade's quaint designs, 

And moved in monody divinely slow 
The starry pageant o'er the whisp'ring pines. 

And here, where long thy pulseless frame hath lain, 

The mortal house that domiciled thy soul, 
The mocking bird, at still midnight, his strain 

Upon the jasmine's breath doth richly troll. 

And here the cream magnolia's petals fall, 

A scented tribute — in their brown estate — 
To thy tomb's mantle, green-hued over all; 

And hov'ring spirits chant thee "Laureate." 

Charles Sloan Reid. 

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By Floy Pascal Cowan 

Drawings by the author 

Hush! There is the sound of slow-falling footsteps upon the highway, and 
dark, bowed figures move wearily along. But one by one the footsteps are falling 
into silence, and the dusky figures sinking into the shadows beyond. Listen to 
the quaint words the soft old voice is saying, lock deep in memory the pathos 
of the kindly black face, for the twilight is falling upon the old-time darky 
and erelong the night wUl have come. 

With true appreciation of his pic- beauty, or tell the wondrous stories 

turesqueness, his simplicity and his that superstition and fancy have 

lovableness, the South has portrayed woven into fabrics of delightful humor 

the old negro in her literature and or unconscious pathos. But with all 

her art — letting the quaint voice sing her efforts toward a truthful portrayal 

the folk-songs so rich in melody and the old negroes are passing away but 

WU-S SUUUUic , i^uwaui w ou ci. 




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the world calls knowledge yet possess- 
ing in a marked degree the gentleness, 
the courtesy, the high sense of honor, 
that the world calls gentlemanliness; 
reveling in superstition and the crea- 
tions of an exuberant imagination, 

big plantation before the war had 
come to change Southern life with all 
its surroundings and relations. The 
master's little boy has fallen ill of a 
dread disease, and lies pale and un- 
conscious, wasting away as'the days 



simple and childlike in their faith, 
gifted with a rare sense of humor and 
surrounded by a pathos most touch- 
ing — they are drifting away into the 
gloom, leaving none to follow them 
as they had none to precede. 

I have in mind a little scene on a 

pass. By his side, patient and untir- 
ing, sits his old black mammy, with 
her face full of tenderness that deepens 
and saddens as hope dies in her heart. 
They can't make her leave him. 

11 You must rest, mammy ,t]you 
must!" says the master.* But the old 

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gray head shakes slowly and si- 
lently, for the tears stand ready to 

With all the love and care the little 
life drifts away. As they gather there 

po' li'l boy — my po' boy!" And the 
old voice breaks into sobs. 

That was not bondage. 

This was but typical of the relation 
between the old darkies and their 



by the bedside mammy takes the boy's 
mother in her arms — she had been her 
mammy, too, long ago — and comforts 
her while the tears stream down both 
their faces. 

"Mammy knows how yer heart's 
achin', chile. Mammy knows! " My 

masters. In most cases it was a re- 
lation of mutual helpfulness, of sym- 
pathy and of perfect understanding. 
The old negro loved his " white folks." 
He strove to be like them, and in his 
quick imitativeness adopted much of 
their refinement, their courtliness of 

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manner, their true gentlemanliness 
and womanliness. They were his 
ideals. He did not have education or 
enlightenment, but his impressionable 
nature yielded readily to the influences 
about him. He became a gentleman 
— this old black darky, in his jeans 
pants and the cast-off coat of his 

Very few of the old darkies are left 
now, only here and there a mammy 

or uncle, feeble and bowed with years. 
And I love them! I never look into 
one of their kindly faces with the 
white hair and patient eyes, but I 
catch a whiff of fragrance from the rose 
garden of the past, and follow fancy 
back over the years to the scenes of 
long ago. I see the cabin nestling 
amid the shade trees, I hear the lullaby 
of a soft, rich voice and see the dusky 
face of mammy bending over "ole 
Mistis' li'l chile." I watch the shad- 
ows of evening falling upon the old 
plantation's happy life, and hear the 
negro melodies filling the air with 

Across the sunlit times of peace I 
pass, and into the gloom of the strife 
and fall. About the desolated homes 
I see the loyal old negroes faithful 
to the bitter end, comforting the 
broken-hearted mistress, crying soft- 
ly over "ole Marster" come home to 

And then, back through the mist 
I come and look again into the old 
face before me. 

"Uncle, will you let me paint your 
picture?" // 

The kindly black face wrinkles into 
a pleased, half teased smile, and I hear 
the soft old voice: 

1 ' Lor, Mistis — whut yer wanter paint 
dis ole nigger's picture fer?" 

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By James Henry Stevenson 

' ORNWALL is one of 
the richest parts of 
England, in scenery, 
legend, and historic 
lore. It has both 
in summer and in 
winter, one of the 
most delightful cli- 
mates to be found 
anywhere on the 
globe. Magnificent 
roads wind through a rugged, undu- 
lating country of hill, valley and ravine 
opening up to the traveler bits of 
scenery of surpassing loveliness on 
every hand. The shore line is pic- 
turesque and fascinating, and the sea 
seems ever near. With long arms it 
reaches in from various points as if to 
fold the whole land in its embrace and 
refresh it with its salty breath. The 
ruined mines with dismantled dwell- 
ings, abandoned, gaping shafts and 
general aspect of desolation, suggest 
fine local coloring for the novelist. 
The railroad service is good, reaching 
all important points as far as Pen- 
zance, and for the other places a splen- 
did coaching service searches out every 
nook and corner. 

Notwithstanding its great attrac- 
tiveness few American tourists ever 
visit Cornwall. This is due to the fact 
that it lies in an out-of-the-way corner 
of England. It is entirely off the 
general lines of travel and a special 
trip must be made to see it. Passen- 
gers who land at Liverpool proceed 
direct to London, or reach the metropo- 
lis more leisurely after a visit to Ire- 
land, Scotland and points of interest 
in the northern part of England. 

In like manner those who land 
at ^ Southampton or Plymouth are 
whisked off to London by special 
trains as though that was the one 
place in England worth seeing. 

Penzance, the best point, perhaps, 
from which to visit Cornwall, is distant 
from London about eight hours, or 
from Plymouth about three. 

When this district becomes better 
known to the American traveling 
public I predict it will become one of 
the most popular parts of England. 

Cornwall is almost an island, cut 
off from the rest of England by the 
Plymouth Sound and the river Tamar. 
It is a Duchy, and was for many years 
politically independent of England. 
Even to this day the people speak 
of "going to England." It is min- 
erally the richest part of England, and 
there is a tradition that even Solomon 
obtained from these distant shores 
tin and copper for his temple. How- 
ever that may be, we have good reason 
for believing that the Phoenicians, the 
earliest and most adventurous rovers 
of the sea, brought from Cornwall the 
tin — a metal found in a few places 
only — which they used to harden their 
copper into bronze. 

Rawlinson, in his history of the 
Phoenicians, says: "The Phoenicians 
had one more colony towards the 
west, which has a peculiar merest for 
all English speaking peoples. Phoe- 
nician ships from Gadeira braved the 
perils of the open ocean, and coasting 
along the western shores of Spain and 
Gaul, without (apparently) making 
settlements, crossed the mouth of the 
English Channel from Ushant to the 
Scilly Isles, and conveyed thither a 
body of colonists, who established 
an emporium. The attraction which 
drew them was the mineral wealth of 
the islands and of the neighboring 
Cornish coast, which may have become 
known to them through the Gauls of 
the opposite continent. It is reasona- 
ble to suppose that the Phoenicians 
both worked the mines and smelted 

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the ores. They certainly drew from 
this quarter those copious supplies of 
tin and lead which they imported into 
Greece and Asia, and from which 
they derived so large a profit. They 
called the islands and shores on which 
they had settled the 'Cassiterides' or 
'Tin Islands/ and related of the in- 
habitants that they 'were clad in 
black cloaks and in tunics reaching 
to the feet, with girdles round their 
waists;' that they 'walked with staves, 
and were bearded like goats' ; that they 
'subsisted by means of their cattle, and 
for the most part led a wandering life.' 
Their tin and lead they were ready to 
exchange for pottery, salt and bronze 

Perhaps the greatest surprise about 
Cornwall is its ideal climate. Aconites 
are in bloom by the first of January and 
crocuses a few weeks later. Fuchsias 
grow out of doors always, and are 
shrubs or trees, not plants as with us. 
Delicate rhododendrons and hydran- 
geas remain out in the open all winter 
and are untouched by the frost. 
Among the flowers that are found in 
bloom all winter are mentioned the 
daisy, the groundsel, butcher's broom, 
and many others. The banana, citron 
and orange flourish towards Land's 

Cornwall' is the home of the King 
Arthur and Lyonesse legend. Every 
boy has done homage to Arthur and 
the Knights of the Round Table, and 
it is with regret that we are forced to 
speak of anything pertaining to him 
as legendary. It is still sadder to 
relate that there are some historic 
infidels and iconoclasts who would 
have us believe there was no Arthur 
at all, but we may rest assured that 
he represents something worthy and 
heroic in the age from which his story 
reaches us. 

In the legend of Lyonesse, a mere 
excerpt from the great Arthurian 
legend, Arthur is holding court at 
Tintagel, where he is surrounded by 
those glorious knights of the Round 
Table, whom he had created and who 
had joined him in behalf of righteous- 
ness. Sin had crept into the company- 
and many of his most illustrious 
knights had fallen away in the hour 

of temptation. Treason had also made 
its appearance, and Prince Mordred, 
his nephew, had raised an army to 
wrest the crown of England from the 

Cornwall was full of Arthur's foes, 
and under Mordred they marched 
against Tintagel Keep, where Arthur 
and his remaining knights waited the 

At break of day came the call to 
horse and Arthur and his uncon- 
quered knights rode off to meet the 
treacherous foe. Next evening the 
battered remnants of the army, whose 
chief had been slain by the rebels, were 
seen flying towards the Cassiterides, 
with Mordred harfd upon their track. 

While they paused on the brow of 
of a distant hill and debated the wis- 
dom of waiting to strike one more blow 
at the traitor, a misty shadow rose up 
between them and their pursuers and 
gradually assumed the form of the 
awful ghost Merlin. 

On thundered Mordred over those 
fair plains that then lay between the 
present shores of Cornwall and the 
Scilly Isles, — those plains where once 
men dug up mineral wealth and where 
the spires of forty churches were out- 
lined against the sky. But as he and 
his men galloped on, the clouds took 
on an ominous appearance and the 
light a lurid hue, while distant thunder 
moaned and muttered the portents 
of some awful happening. Suddenly 
Merlin, the enchanter, rose up in Mor- 
dred's path, the fountains of the great 
deep broke up, and as the walls of 
water rose on high with the sinking 
earth, the terrified hosts of Mordred 
essayed to flee, but in vain. They 
lie engulfed beneath those restless 
waves over which one sails to-day in 
going from Penzance to the Scilly 

The remnant of Arthur's army, 
snatched from the pursuer by the 
opening abyss, escaped to the Scilly 
Isles, where they lived ever after. 
Arthur was dead, Guinevere was dead, 
and the knights of the Round Table 
were scattered, so that there was 
nothing left to tempt them back to 
England. No wonder Tennyson makes 
the "bold Sir Bedivere" say: 

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"But now the whole Round Table is dissolved 
Which was an image of the mighty world; 
And I, the last, go forth companionless, 
And the days darken round me and the 

Among new men, strange faces, other 


My readers will understand with 
what new zest I re-read "Morte D' 
Arthur" after my visit to the scenes of 
his fabled story, arid more especially 
after I had sailed the waters that now 
roll above Lyonesse, in a ship whose 
desperate, pitching every moment sug- 
gested that she was determined to 
join the overwhelmed hosts of Mordred. 

Halfway between the shores of 
Cornwall and the Scilly Isles, which 
lie about twenty-seven miles west of 
Land's End, is Wolf Lighthouse, a 
solitary rock between the two, and 
evidently the highest point of land 
in that fair domain which, according 
to the legend, now sleeps beneath the 
wave. No doubt the land of Cornwall 
once reached to the Scillies as England 
once joined France, but when? 

On the morning 
of our departure 
for Cornfcvall, we 
were early at Pad- 
dington station, 
London, from 
which the^Great 
Western Railway 
runs a through 
train to Penzance, 
our objective point. 

It is necessary 
to be on time when 
traveling in Eng- 
land if you would 
keep your company 
together and jour- 
ney comfortably, 
unless, indeed, you 
have taken the pre- 
caution to engage 
seats a day or 
two in advance, 

since through carriages are run to the 
various towns and the trains are al- 
ways crowded. 

Our precaution was unavailing, how- 
ever, for already every apartment was 
full. In this strait, I appealed to a 
gold-braid bedecked individual, who 
looked as though he might own the 

railway, but was in fact merely an 
''inspector." I did not forget what 
has been said about the eloquence of 
"filthy lucre* ' and soon we were com- 
fortably ensconced in what I detected 
was a smoking compartment. I called 
my benefactor's attention to the 
discovery and he assured me that as 
there was no other apartment vacant, 
the guard would see that the ladies 
were not annoyed by any smokers. 
We picked up another traveler, a 
gentleman, before we got off, and left 
congratulating ourselves on our roomy 
and comfortable quarters. All went 
well till about one o'clock, when our 
fellow traveler extracted a brown pipe 
from his clothing and prepared to burn 
some incense. I appealed to him on 
behalf of the ladies, and though he 
looked rather incredulous and com- 
passionate when I repeated to him the 
promise of the guard, he desisted so 
far as to remove to the corridor to 
smoke. No doubt he thought un- 
complimentary things about us as he 


tossed to and fro in the narrow aisle 
and thought of the ubiquitous Ameri- 
cans, occupying the comfortable leather 
cushions within. 

The first stop we made after leaving 
London was at Bath, whose name at 
once suggests its most salient feature, 
the hot springs and baths. It is an 

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old town, and there is a curious tra- 
dition that the beneficial effects of the 
springs were discovered by a British 
prince, who suffered from leprosy, and 
had observed the remedial effects the 
waters had on swine afflicted with the 
same disease. 

Our next stop was at Exeter. This 
town is connected with an arm of the 
sea by means of a canal so that ships 
of light tonnage can enter it. Here 
we caught our first whiff of the ocean 
and for miles after we left it we skirted 
the shore, and looked out over the sea, 
misty and gray in the falling rain, but 

"initiated" and found it so refreshing 
that we faced the remaining hours 
of the journey with perfect equanimity. 

Plymouth itself is a very interesting 
city. Especially is this true of the 
Hoe, a magnificent promenade thirty 
yards wide, some four hundred yards 
long, and fifty feet above the level of the 
sea, over which it commands a view to 
that isolated rock where the famous 
Eddystone light warns and welcomes. 

The Royal Albert Bridge, a mag- 
nificent structure of two arches, each 
four hundred and forty-five feet long 
and one hundred feet above the water, 


none the less welcome after the sultri- 
ness, dust, and ceaseless roar of 

Exeter is said to be "the one^English 
city in which it is certain that human 
habitation has never ceased from the 
Roman period to the present day." 

We arrived at Plymouth about four 
o'clock, which is English "tea time" 
throughout Great Britain, and found 
perambulators on the broad platform 
with fragrant tea and Bath buns. 
English coffee is not always without 
reproach, and I have never known 
a man to ask for a second cup. Not 
so, however, English tea! It is the 
national "dish," and, to the initiated, 
seems fit for the gods. We were 

spans the river Tamar here and con- 
nects Devon, in which Plymouth is 
situated, with Cornwall. 

At the opposite end of this bridge 
is situated the little town of Saltash, 
which used to collect a toll of one 
shilling from every ship entering Ply- 
mouth harbor. Subsequent to the 
attack made by the Spanish Armada 
against England in 1588, it was cus- 
tomary to charge every Spanish ship 
two shillings. It was evidently the 
purpose of the thrifty Cornishmen to 
collect, in time, the amount of any 
damage they might have suffered 
through the unwelcome attention of 
Philip's warships. This patriotic 
purpose was frustrated by an ordi- 

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nance, passed in 1901, abolishing the 

We were soon conscious that we 
were in Cornwall. Glimpses of the 
sea, deep ravines, that widened into 
fertile valleys, rivers tide-empty, and 
displaying slimy banks which the re- 
turning sea will shortly cover up again, 
the abandoned mines with their waste 
heaps, their smokeless stacks, their 
windowless and roofless houses, were 
some of the first impressions we had 
of "the delectable Duchy." 

I know of no picture of desolation 
more complete than that of an aban- 
doned mining district. Without vege- 
tation or sign of life, with the suggestion 
of departed prosperity, over wide, 
bleak acres, silence, like death itself, 
reigns. I thought, as I felt my way 
cautiously among the various ruins 
and looked into the gaping shafts, and 
of course threw stones into them, that 
if I were writing a novel and wanted 
a murder committed, I could have it 
most successfully done here. . 

These mines were among the most 
prosperous ever known. Dalcoath 
mine at Camborne has been sunk to 
a depth qf 2,700 feet, and has paid 
more dividends than any tin or copper 
mine in tfce world. The Trescavean, an 
abandoned mine, on an expenditure of 
about $10,000 yielded over $5,000,000. 

These veins of metal are not worked 
out; they are as rich as ever, but the 
decline in the price of tin and copper 
and in some cases the cost of mining 
the metal, resulted .in the cessation of 
the work. The recent rise in prices 
of the ores, improvements in machinery 
and mining methods, have made it 
possible to restore prosperity to some 
of these properties. 

The Cornish miner, driven from 
home by the failure of the mines, is 
well known in every part of the world. 
As a sturdy workman and picturesque 
character he is found alike in Asia, 
Africa, and America, but his heart is 
in Cornwall, where he has wife or child 
or parent for whom he tenderly cares. 
The remittances from South Africa, 
during the recent Boer War, fell off, 
owing to the cessation of mining opera- 
tions there, to the striking sum of 

tfr00O 9 QQQ, 

We arrived at Penzance, which was 
to be our stopping place for two weeks, 
on the summer evening of a beautiful 
day when the sky was blue, the grass 
green, and the flowers, at every win- 
dow and* in all the gardens, smiling. 
After we had gotten settled in our 
rooms and looked out over the mag- 
nificent circular sweep of Mount's 
Bay, with St. Michael's Mount and its 
historic castle rising up out of the very 
deep, and far on the horizon the tawny 
sails of a fishing fleet a hundred strong, 
putting out to the sea for the night's 
draft of fishes, and especially as the 
breath of the ocean and the serenity 
of the evening moved up to greet us, 
we felt we had forgiven all our enemies, 
forgotten all our troubles, and were 
at peace even with ourselves. 

Across Mount's Bay, at a distance of 
fifteen or twenty miles, at Poldhu, we 
could see the towerS of the Marconi 
Telegraph Company. The mystery 
of this wonderful discovery only grows 
as one stands by the towers which 
lift their sensitive antennae into the 
ether and catch the tremulous vibra- 
tions which have transmitted them- 
selves three thousand miles over the 
wastes of the ocean. 

After this let us dream our wildest 
dreams. All may come true. Men 
once made sport of Jules Verne while 
they conned his fascinating pages, but 
the scientist has vindicated the seer 
and brought his dreams to pass. 

Penzance, itself, is beautiful and 
picturesque on account of its situation 
on the seaward side of a sloping hill. 
Its granatoid promenade, flanked by 
a drive, is half a mile long. This com- 
mands such a splendid view of the 
sea, the ships passing up the coast, 
the heights of St. Michael's Mount, 
and the rugged coast line round the 
bay, that it is a joy to walk or sit there. 

Below the walk is a fine gravel and 
sand beach, which is constantly occu- 
pied by loungers, readers or happy 

The main street of the town, whose 
strange name, Market Jew Street, 
baffles explanation, runs laterally along 
the hillside, which is here so steep^Jthat 
the curbing of the sidewalk on the 
west side of the street is a stone wall 

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six to eight feet high, cut at certain 
intervals with steps leading to and 
from the street. Chi this sidewalk one 
is on a level with the second-story 
windows of the opposite side. 

The street, which is wide and spa- 
cious for an old town, is interrupted 
at the brow of the hill by the market 
house, which stands almost in its 
middle. On the right is a passage for 
pedestrians, and on the left a narrow 
driveway for the street traffic. In 
front of the market hall is a handsome 
statue of Sir Humphry Davy, who 
was the son of a Penzance wood carver, 
and was born on Market Jew Street. 
As a hoy he was fond of experimenting 
With powder and fireworks to the 
neglect of his studies. The school- 
master of Penzance could not make 
any progress with him so he was sent 
to Truro, where no better results were 
obtained. He was then apprenticed 
to a surgeon-apothecary, but the many 
opportunities for experimentation this 
afforded him led the surgeon to believe 
the boy was incorrigibly lazy and that 
he would blow them all up some day. 

Coming under the notice of some sci- 
entific persons he was brought to 
Bristol, where he entered the Pneu- 
matic Medical Institute. From this 
moment his progress in chemistry and 
electrical studies was by leaps and 
bounds, and in 1801, at the age of 
twenty-three, he was elected lecturer 
in chemistry to the Royal Society and 
in the following year he was made 
professor. His ungainly appearance 
and manner created a certain prejudice 
against him, but his brilliant lectures 
and unique experiments soon cap- 
tivated the English metropolis. 

Scientific discourses, treatises, dis- 
coveries and consequent honors, fol- 
lowed rapidly upon one another till 
he was elected president of the Royal 
Society. Sir Humphry Davy is per- 
haps best known to the public at large 
by his invention of the safety lamp to 
prevent explosions from mine damp. 
This lamp he generously presented to 
the miners, as he refused to take out 
any patent for it. The career of this 
remarkable genius, destitute of the 
school and collegiate training that have 
made many other great men great, most 

certainly calls in question some of our 
fine spun educational theories. 

Penzance is the starting point from 
which splendid roads reach many 
points of interest in the southern part 
of Cornwall. Char-a-bancs leave every 
morning in various directions, and the 
weather is very accommodating, since, 
though a great deal of rain falls in 
"Cornwall, it generally rains at night. 

At a distance of about a mile from 
Penzance on the south is the little 
fishing village of Newlyn, a place much 
affected by artists and which has given 
its name to a school of the same. Here 
many of the exhibitors at the Royal 
Gallery have lived and here Mr. Pass- 
more Edwards has erected a beautiful 
art gallery. The contrast helps the 
memory: Newlyn is celebrated for its 
art and fish. 

Two miles beyond Newlyn is Mouse- 
hole, so named from a cave in the rocks 
near by. This village is called by the 
natives "Mousl." It is one of the 
quaintest spots I have ever seen. The 
streets writhe and twist as though the 
town had once been in a semi-molten 
condition and shaken. I tried to 
drive through these passages and suc- 
ceeded only indifferently in the widest, 
where I felt all the time although I 
were trespassing in some one's yard. 
In other places it was a complete fail- 
ure, and I found myself in a cul-de-sac, 
from which it was necessary to back 

The civic treasure of Mousehole, 
of which its citizens are justly proud, 
is the Kegwin Arms, an old hostelry, 
no longer licensed, which has been in 
existence since Elizabethan times. 
In 1595 a portion of the Spanish navy 
attacked this village and in the house 
opposite the Kegwin Arms is shown 
the cannon ball which killed Jenkin 
Kegwin, the proprietor of the famous 
inn. The marvel to me was that this 
Spanish cannon ball had not been 
carried off long ago by some curiosity 
hunter. Recently Sir Edmund An- 
trobus, the proprietor of Stonehenge, 
has been forced to fence in the Druid 
antiquities, many of them great rocks, 
to prevent the visitors from carrying 
them off, while here a cannon ball shot 
from a Spanish galleon remains unmo- 

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tested. This is either a great over- 
sight or it emphasizes what I said at 
the outset, that is, this quarter is little 
frequented by tourists. 

Above Mousehole, at the top of the 
hill, distant about a mile, is St. Paul. 
Here we sat in our carriage and read 
the inscription on Dolly Pentreath's 
monument. Dolly died in 1775, at 
the age of 102, and had the enviable 
distinction of being the last person to 
converse in the ancient Cornish speech, 
which died out in the eighteenth cen- 
tury. Diligent inquiries made in vari- 
ous quarters failed to discover with 

sorrowfully admit that so little did 
their citizens appreciate the visit of 
their southern friends that they moved 
rapidly out of town and allowed the 
strangers to entertain themselves. 
This was so utterly different from the 
courtesy with which Sir Francis Drake 
and his friends welcomed them in the 
English Channel a few years earlier, 
tfcat we may pardon the Spaniards if 
they were surprised and hurt. 

On the north of Penzance, at a dis- 
tance of about three miles, is situated 
Marazion, whose name is also some- 
thing of a puzzle. Popularly it is said 


whom she conversed. The monument 
to her memory, I found to my sur- 
prise, was erected by Prince Louis 
Lucien Bonaparte. 

A strenuous effort is now being 
made to preserve the Cornish tongue. 
It occurred to me that this commenda- 
ble enterprise should have been under- 
taken before Dolly left. 

On the occasion of the visit of the 
Spaniards to the Kegwin Arms, al- 
ready noted, they took the time 
necessary to run up to the top of 
the hill and burn the church here. 
In like impartial manner the Dons 
paid visits to Newlyn and Penzance. 
The historians of the latter place 

to mean bitter Zion, and to refer to a 
colony of Jews who once settled here. 
In support of the etymology, Market 
Jew Street in Penzance is cited, and 
the tradition that Joseph of Arima- 
thea was among the merchants who 
traded with this port for tin. In this 
connection I might mention that the 
coat of arms of Penzance is the head 
of John the Baptist on a charger. 

Recent research has robbed these 
interesting theories of their romance 
by affirming that Marazion is only a 
Cornish word for market (what a pity 
this matter was not referred to Dolly 
Pentreath!) that, though Penzance is 
Cornish for "Holy Head," yet the con- 


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nection with the head of John the 
Baptist is a myth of the Penzance 
fathers. Modern Marazion is inter- 
esting chiefly, if not entirely, because 
from that point St. Michael's Mount 
may be reached by a good road when 
the tide is out. 

The mention of St. Michael's Mount 
suggests the remark that it is the most 
striking feature of the bay. At high 
tide it stands up, sentinel like, out of 
the midst of the waters, solitary and 
alone. Precipitous on the south and 
east, but sloping on the north, from 
which direction it is approachable 
when the tide is out, crowned with a 
handsome castle, it tempts you to be- 
lieve it could bring forth from the stir- 
ring and chivalrous past many an in- 
teresting and bloody tale, if it could 
but speak. 

To my surprise I learned that the 
Romans had been here also, as Roman 
coins have been found on tie site. It 
is said that the Benedictines had a 
priory here as early as 490, but later 
the place was taken by the Gilbertines, 
a French order. When Edward III 
went to war with France he dispos- 
sessed them and gave it to the Nuns 
of Sion. For two hundred years it 
has been in possession of the family 
of St. Aubyns, the present occupant 
being Baron St. Levan. It has played 
an important part in various wars, 
having finally the misfortune to fall 
into the hands of the Roundheads. 

During our stay in Penzance a new 
regulation regarding visitors to the 
castle went into force. Hitherto there 
had been no restrictions, and the priva- 
cy of the residence was somewhat 
disturbed. On this account a guide 
was appointed who conducted visitors 
to the castle door, whereupon they 
were shown certain parts of the place. 

We climbed the mountain by a wind- 
ing road, passing two batteries of guns 
taken from French ships, and now so 
mounted as to command the bay from 
a position that afforded a splendid view, 
and finally reached the heavily barred 
door on the south. The guide knocked 
and rang several times before there 
was any response. Then we noticed 
a movement within and chains began 
to rattle au4 b^rs to withdraw, 

When at last the door swung open, a 
tall, angular, vinegary female, with a 
face like a knife and a voice like steel, 
filled up the doorway perpendicularly, 
though I must confess she produced 
little effect laterally. She opened her 
artillery on John, the guide. What 
did he mean by bringing visitors at 
that hour of the night! John looked 
at his watch and soiled, for he was on 
time. Still the case-knife was unre- 
lenting, but reading in John's counte- 
nance our right to enter, I perceived 
that this seeming refusal was only in- 
tended to enhance the graciousness of 
the later permission and, as a corollary, 
to heighten the expected fee. 

We were conducted to the chapel, a 
very interesting bit of architecture, 
containing on every hand memorial 
tablets of numerous soldiers of the 
family who had died for king and 
country in different parts of the British 
Empire. After we had looked round 
and were, as I thought, ready to go, 
the lady of the vinegar face, who was 
now in the midst of a visible, but vain 
effort, to look pleasant, intimated that 
the sight really worth seeing she was 
now prepared to show to us. She 
lighted a candle, turned aside one of 
the seats in the choir, and showed us 
a door to a stairway leading down be- 
low the chapel. 

Descending this we found ourselves 
in a little narrow crypt, cut out of the 
solid rock beneath the chapel floor. 
The door was discovered some years 
back while repairs were being made, 
and after the masonry was removed, 
a skeleton, supposed to be that of Sit 
John Arundell, a knight of the fifteenth 
century, who took part in the civil 
wars, was found. From the crypt 
an underground passage leads away 
through the solid rock to the edge of 
the mountain, and furnishes an exit 
to the chapel. This passage the Baron 
had considerately blocked, lest some 
of his visitors, in an attempt to escape 
from the guide, should creep in and 
get lost. I have no authority for this 
statement, which is simply an induc- 
tion which I made from the lady's 

There is a legend which says that 
the land beneath]* Mount's Pay was 

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Otice a forest, and disappeared when 
Lyonesse was lost. An old charter of 
the time of Edward the Confessor de- 
scribes St. Michael's Mount as the 
"holy mount which is near the sea," 
and another document said that the 
Mount "was originally enclosed within 
a very thick wood, distant from the 
ocean six miles." It is said also that 
the old Cornish name for the Mount 
meant a "hoar rock in the woods." 
Submarine trees are still washed 
ashore, it is said. 

Penzance, Newlyn and Mousehole 
are great fishing centers, and I know 
of no prettier sight than that afforded 
in the evening on Mount's Bay when 
there is a circle of sails along the 
horizon. There is no white canvas 
seen. The sails, which are tawny or 
red — out of respect, no doubt, to the 
artistic proclivities of Newlyn — add 
a touch of poetry to the scene. 

As you watch, the sails grow dimmer 
on the horizon, and the shadows deepen 
till at last you seek repose and fall 

asleep dreaming of fisherman's luck. 
You seem to have slept but a moment 
but it is already morning, when the 
fisherman's striBent voice vibrates 
through yourconsciousnesswith his call 
of "Pilchards! pilchards I pilchards!" 
Fisherman's luck? You wish now 
that he had drowned last night in- 
stead. This is your first churlish 
thought as you turn over and attempt 
to go asleep. But it is no use I Be- 
sides, you remember you asked the 
landlady to have pilchards for break- 
fast, and you begin to feel a growing 
curiosity to know whether the famous 
Cornish fish is living up to his reputa- 
tion. A turn in the morning air is like 
a promenade on shipboard in mid- 
ocean, and as you sit down to break- 
fast with an eager appetite, you have 
forgiven the fisherman for not getting 
drowned, and your spirits rise as you 
test the merits of his catch. IJver 
after, no matter where you go, you 
will hear his voice a-calling, "Pil- 
chards I pilchards!" L _ 


Digitized by 


LILUAH kehdrick bybh 

Our Right to Love. By Anna Chase 
Deppen. New York: J. S. Ogilvie 
Publishing Co. Price, $i .c 


Mrs. Deppen, a native of New Orleans 
and well-known for her short stories 
and verse in the daily and weekly 


press, has chosen for the scene of her 
first novel a picturesque island in the 
Wyoming valley, the historic scene 
of the Wyoming massacre, which the 
poet Campbell has perpetuated in his 
poem, " Gertrude of Wyoming." 
1 ' Our Right to Love " is not a historical 
novel, but a love story replete with 
pathos, dramatic action and humor. 
The plot hinges on the engagement of 
the hero to marry his benefactor's 
niece from motives of gratitude. 

When later he meets a charming Ken- 
tucky girl and learns what love really 
is there is a sharp and prolonged 
struggle between his heart and his 

The Storm Signal. By Gustave F. 
Mertins. Indianapolis, Ind. : Bobbs- 
Merrill Co. Price, $1.50. 

The race problem in fiction is a popular 
theme, and Mr. Mertins, in "The 
Storm Signal, 1 ' has cast an interesting 
light on this subject. He paints 
the type of the affectionate, faithful 
old family retainer, as well as the un- 
ruly element whose presence is a con- 
stant menace. The workings of a 
secret society and the astonishing 
ascendency gained by three "black 
magicians," ending in an uprising 
among the negroes, crowds the narra- 
tive with thrilling interest. Mr. Mer- 
tins is particularly happy in his negro 
dialect, and the illustrations, by A. 
I. Keller, add greatly to the whole 
value of the story. 

Can Such Things Be? By Ambrose 
Bierce. Washington and New 
York: Neale Publishing Co. Price, 

Mr. Bierce, the well-known Western 
writer, has collected, -under the above 
title, a number of stories relating to 
the unreal or supernatural, together 
with a sprinkling of war stories in his 
usual vein of keen wit. These stories, 
while full of interest to those interested 
in gruesome or ' * creepy " ta|es, do not 
afford the best vehicle for Mr. Bierce's 
cleverness, which is best displayed 
in his essay work. We understand 
that the Neale Company will shortly 
reprint "The Monk and the Hang- 
man's Daughter," a story which Mr. 
Bierce wrote in Madrid in connection 
with the celebrated Austrian author, 
Dr. S. Danziger, but which, though 
meeting with immediate, favor, had 

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only one edition, owing to the failure 
of its publishers. 

The Blue Cockade. By Flora Mc- 
Donald Williams. Washington and 
New York: Neale Publishing Co. 

This charming story of the Old Do- 
minion preserves to our literature a 

record of the tragic and romantic 
history in which the State is so rich. 
Its pictures of home life, its descrip- 
tions of matchless scenery and its 
sparkling chronicles of social life 
give a delightful and veracious pic- 
ture and render it worthy of a high 
place in the ranks of noteworthy 


By W. C. Rinearson 

Having lately returned from the 
land of cotton, that monarch that 
holds sway all over the world, with- 
out whose dictum the wheels of the 
earth's progress would stop, I am 
moved to say that with each visit I 
make to the "White Country" I am 
more deeply impressed with the stu- 
pendous growth of that section, its 
power and glorious future. 

"Keep your eye on the South," Jay 
Gould said a quarter of a century ago. 
"It is a new country, an El Dorado 
of riches." He was not more pro- 
phetic than time has proved. It is 
computed that more than $300,000,- 
000 of money has been added to the 
wealth of the South in the last two 
years. If any part of the United 
States has cause for pride in the cen- 
sus returns of the past twelve months 
it is that section. Providence has 
been kind throughout its entire do- 

Glancing backward, during the pe- 
riod between the years 1890 and 1900, 
it is seen that the capital invested in 
the cotton belt was increased from 
$181417,000 to $3794<>7»9 I 5> or Io6 
per cent The Southern Cotton 

Growers' Association is an organiza- 
tion with more power than Wall 
Street. It literally holds the money 
power in the hollow of its hand. 

The result of its conference in Jan- 
uary had a significance of national 
import. And yet, a few words might 
tell the tale of the result. "Hold for 
15 cents, encourage the cultivation of 
less acreage and larger crops." Cot- 
ton need fear no rival, knowing that 
it produces, in value, more than iron 
and steel combined. Let the cotton 
crop but half fail, and the heart of in- 
dustry beats more slowly; fully fail, 
and the word "panic" has found a 
new meaning. It would require a 
brain omniscient to comprehend the 
vastness of the product of the past 
year. The idea- that India, Egypt or 
any other foreign country will become 
a formidable competitor of the South 
in cotton growing need not be serious- 
ly considered (if ever) for the next 
half century. The largest drawback 
to such a probability is the indiffer- 
ence of the people of Oriental lands 
to agricultural pursuits. 

To one thing the South points with 
pardonable pride — its success in dis- 

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couraging industrial unions. Capital 
is master, and will likely remain so. 
The race question is one that the 
South alone can settle. It goes with- 
out saying that the Southerner better 
knows the negro than the Northerner, 
and for the sake of the entire coun- 
try, should be allowed to solve the 
problem as best he may. The negro 
is satisfied in the South, and mat 
many of them have developed a ten- 
dency toward economy, to hoard their 
earnings, is looked upon by the South 
as an evidence of improvement, and 
is largely encouraged by employers. 

So to-day, forty years after the sur- 
render of the gallant remnant of the 
Confederate army at Appomattox, we 
see old Dixie rise from the ashes of 
desolation, a conqueror of conquer- 
ors, showing such mighty recupera- 
tion as history does not record of any 
other section of the earth under like 
conditions. It would be impossible to 
conceive of anything of which the 
South could be deprived and suffer 
to any large extent. All the products 
of all generous lands are hers, wheth- 
er cereals, fruits, vegetables or min- 
erals, not to mention her world pow- 
er, cotton. 

In Georgia cotton is the major 
commodity, but her timber and mill- 
ing interests are enormous. In 
Alabama iron is still the impor- 
tant factor, but coal, lime, lime- 
stone and dolomite are to be reck- 
oned with. The same may be said of 
the entire cotton belt. The South 
regards as the most signal point in its 
development the establishment of the 
land and industrial agency organized 
by Mr. Samuel Spencer, of the South- 
ern Railway (Queen & Crescent) 
System some years ago. This, to- 
gether with the reorganization of the 
Richmond Valley System by J. P. 
Morgan, was taken as the birth of the 
era that has wrought such immense 
power for the cotton country. Fol- 
lowing this came the entrance of the 
Pennsylvania interests into the Board 
of the Charleston & Ohio and Nor- 
folk & Western, thus completing the 
circle of friendly interests. The Illi- 
nois Central, originally built to run 
between Chicago and New Orleans, 

realized the fact that Cincinnati wa£ 
the logical distributing station for the 
South, and made that city its northern 
terminus. The Manufacturers' Rec- 
ord, of Baltimore, will accept no ad- 
vertising, it will be remembered, from 
any other city north of the Mason and 
Dixon line, because no other is likely 
to advance so much the development 
of the South. 

I have been greatly pleased in my 
recent tours through the Cotton 
States to recognize the kindly feel- 
ing that is growing there for this 
city. The South is fully alive to 
the fact that this city is its natural 
market, and that it can purchase ev- 
erything needful here with as little ex- 
pense as elsewhere, with railroad fa- 
cilities giving us the balance of power. 
The South is our natural commercial 
tributary, just as Chicago is that of 
the Northwest. My attention has 
been directed recently to the interest 
developing in the South in our Fall 
Festival. This endeavor upon our 
part to enlarge the opportunities of 
advertising our commercial strength, 
and to obtain ideas from other sec- 
tions, is sure to evolve great things 
in the future. I am glad to see the 
purpose upon the part of the Festival 
directorate to extend its aims to the 
enlargement of our relations with the 
South. The interest of serious nature 
taken in the Festival by the Industrial 
Bureau, Advertisers' and Commercial 
Clubs and all other organizations that 
have for their purpose the honor and 
glory of Cincinnati, is in itself an ob- 
ject lesson to the South, and proves 
the evidence of our own faith in the 
project The future of this city as a 
great metropolis depends upon our 
own works, and that spirit of fairness 
without which no greatness may be 

During the yellow fever panic of 
1905 the Southern people appealed to 
the management of the Queen & Cres- 
cent Route for extra accommoda- 
tions for transportation of refugees 
to the North. This was not only 
readily conceded, but Cincinnati most 
hospitably opened its arms to receive 
them, a fact that caused large grati- 
tude throughout the South. 

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Our Editor-in-Chief, who has just been chosen by his people to represent 
them in the United States Senate 

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' } 

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By Daniel Rogers 

i N the year 1857 Rev. 
f J. S. Murrow left his 
home in Georgia to 
become a missionary 
to the Creek Nation 
in Indian Territory. 
For nearly fifty years 
this apostle labored 
faithfully among the 
different tribes, civil- 
_ ized and uncivilized, 

learning their ways and understanding 
their needs. The result of his work 
was the conviction that the real help 
the Indian needed was loving training 
to fit the youths for a practical life, and 
loving care for the aged and helpless. 
The idea of founding a home for 
Indian orphan children grew out of 
the situation of affairs in the Indian 
Territory. The reservations belong- 
ing to the Indians were being allotted 
to the individuals of the tribes in 
severalty. Grafters and land sharks 
were eagerly watching and taking 
advantage of every opportunity to 

come into possession of these allot- 
ments by fair means or foul. Many 
who were appointed as guardians for 
orphan children were planning to fill 
their pockets with ill-gotten gains at 
the expense of these children for whose 
welfare they cared nothing, only so 
far as they could accomplish their 
selfish designs. What would become 
of these children and old persons when 
their lands had all passed out of their 

From the observation of these con- 
ditions Dr. Murrow devised a plan for 
the preservation of their property to 
the Indians. Selecting a number of 
prominent chiefs he explained to 
them that if each adult landowner 
would donate a few acres of his allot- 
ment the sum total could be located 
in one plot and made a self-supporting 
home for the orphans and the indigent. 
Many of the Indians were glad to do 
this. Individual donations of ten, 
forty, eighty and even one hundred 
and sixty acres were made. A Board 

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| Photo byWS. Ltvdv. McMinnvOU. Tonn. Southern School of Photography 

"Tb« Art of Photography." pi* 899 

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VOL. Ill * JULY, 1906 NO. 4 


By Governor Taylor 


Politics has its lights and shadows — mostly shadows. The man who wins 
at the primary earns his honors, and may the Lord have mercy on the man 
who loses. And yet it cannot be questioned that often the man who wins 
is the loser, and the loser is often the winner. The winner ought to be a 
good Samaritan and the loser ought to keep his lips closed. It is hard for 
the man who triumphs to repress exultation; it is difficult for the vanquished 
to conceal his wounds. The victor alone is worthy of praise, who knows 
how to be generous. The defeated alone deserves sympathy, who knows 
how to suffer in silence. This is true not only in war but in politics. Grant 
never boasted his achievements; Lee never paraded his sorrows; McKinley 
received his honors without boasting; Bryan accepted his defeats without 
complaining. It takes more courage to survive the wounds of defeat than 
to gracefully wear the crown of a conqueror. 

The philosopher in politics accepts defeat as the old man accepted the 
situation when he was expelled from the ballroom. He had too much 
of the "Oh, be joyful" aboard and as he staggered down the street he heard 
the sound of revelry in the ballroom above ; he found his way up the stairs 
and saw the young folks wheeling and whirling in the mazes of the misty 
dance. The old man got excited and tried to get a partner, and when the 
ladies all refused, he pulled off his hat and went galloping around the ball- 
room alone until he galloped into the arms of a couple of strong men who 
ushered him to the top of the stairs and gave him a push and a kick and 
he went revolving like a hoop down to the street below. But "truth 
crushed to the earth will rise again." He rose and stood with his back 
against a lamp post and looking up into the faces that were gazing down, 
said: "Gentlemen, you may be able to fool some folks, but you can't fool 

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me. I know why you kicked me down them stairs; you don't want me up 
there, that's the reason!" 

A gentleman asked an old politician in a recent heated campaign how 
he was running. "Well, sir," the old politician said, "I will tell you a story to 
illustrate how I am running. An old Texan was telling the preacher in 
his town of his narrow escape from death in a cyclone. He said the cyclone 
caught him up in the field where he was plowing and whirled him far up 
into the air and he was accompanied by trees and houses and planks and 
cattle and mules — sometimes they whirled by him and sometimes he whirled 
by them, but the cyclone let him down a mile away into another field 
unscathed and without a scratch upon him. The old preacher looked solemn 
and said: "Now, John, you are a sinner, but don't you believe the Lord 
was with you in that cyclone?" "I don't know whether he was or not" said 
John, "but if he was with me, he was a-goin' some." 

Many reasons are given by men for entering the field of politics, but 
it is quite probable that the main reason which actuates them all is contained 
in the story of the doctor and the baby. 

A society lady who had been away from home all day, neglecting 
her baby, sent for the old doctor to come and see what was the matter with 
it. It was feebly crying and looked pale and sick. The old doctor took 
it in his arms. It immediately began to root around in his bosom with 
open mouth and the old doctor solemnly handed it back to its mother and 
said: "I am sorry to tell you, madam, I can do nothing for the child." The 
lady began to weep and plead with the doctor to save it. But the doctor 
shook his head solemnly and said: "I repeat, madam, I can do nothing 
for the child — it is hungry." 


It was just at the close of the war. Friends of General Bedford Forrest 
gave him a banquet at Jackson, Tennessee, and many prominent men who 
had worn the gray were there. Music mingled with laughter as the hours 
glided by, and wine mingled with wit and humor around the banquet spread. 
The merriment increased with the flow of fun and feeling from the lips of 
many an eloquent Southerner. Finally the moment came for Forrest to put to 
rout his old friend, Landon C. Haynes, who had represented Tennessee 
in the Confederate Senate through the whole war and who believed that 
Forrest was the greatest cavalry general that ever vaulted into saddle. The 
hero of many a battlefield rose and held up his glass amid his friends and 
admirers, and there was a twinkle in his eye as he said : "Here is to Landon 

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C Haynes, who hails from East Tennessee — that country sometimes called 
the God-forsaken." Haynes instantly leaped to his feet and said: "I plead 
guilty to the soft impeachment; I am an East Tennessean; I was born on 
the Watauga, which in the Indian vernacular means 'beautiful river/ and 
beautiful river it is; there I have stood in my childhood and looked down 
through its glassy waters and beheld a heaven below, and then looked up and 
beheld a heaven above, like two mirrors each reflecting in the other its moons 
and planets and trembling stars ; and from its bank of ivy and hemlock, of 
laurel and pine, there stretches a vale back to the distant mountains, as 
beautiful and exquisite as any in Italy or Switzerland; there stand the great 
Roan, the great Black and the great Unaka mountains, among the tallest 
in North America, around whose dizzy heights the clouds gather of their 
own accord even on the brightest day; there I have seen the great storm 
spirit go and take his evening nap in his pavilion of darkness and of 
clouds; then I have seen him aroused at midnight and like a giant re- 
freshed by slumber, awake the tempest and let loose the red lightnings that 
shot along the mountain tops for a thousand miles, swifter than an eagle's 
flight in heaven: then I have seen them get up and dance like angels of 
light in the bosom of the cloud, to the music of that grand organ of nature 
whose keys seemed to have been touched by the fingers of divinity in the 
halls of eternity that resounded in thunder tones through the universe ; then 
I have seen the darkness drift away beyond the western horizon and the 
morning get up like a queen from her saffron bed and come forth from her 
palace in the sun and stand tiptoe on the misty mountain tops, and while 
old night fled from before her shining face to his hiding place at the pole, 
she lighted with a smile the green vale and beautiful river, where I was born 
and played in my childhood. Oh, beautiful land of the mountains with thy 
sun painted cliffs, how can I ever forget thee !" 


. Laughter is that mysterious tide of sentiment that flows from soul to 
soul and that cannot be expressed in words ; it ebbs and flows from heart to 
heart and breaks into pearls and silvery foam on the troubled shores of human 
life; it turns the humblest home into a palace; it makes the pauper a king. 
Wherever its rapturous billows roll, we are tossed to and fro on the sweetest 
waves of passion that heave the human breast. Happier is he who tickles 
the ribs of his fellow man and charms laughter to the lips of trouble, or dries 
a tear on the cheek of sorrow with the sunshine of a smile, than 1 he who 
stabs his fellow man between the ribs with the tongue of malice and bitterness 

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and thus crucifies laughter on the lips of joy, or drowns the sunshine of a 
smile beneath a flood of tears. 

A king once called his wise men and soothsayers around him and said 
to them: "I am king of the realm; I have wealth and glory to my heart's 
content; I have music to charm my ears and flower gardens to charm my 
eyes ; I dwell in a palace, I sit on a throne ; armies march wtTen I command ; 
every wish is gratified, yet I am the most miserable man in the world. I 
cannot laugh; I am unhappy. Tell me, wise men, where shall I find happiness; 
tell me, soothsayers, how shall I be happy." They held a lengthy counsel 
and finally appeared before the king and said: "Disguise thyself, O king, 
and go out among the people unknown to them ; search for the happiest man 
in the realm; make him give thee his shirt; put it on and thou shalt be 
happy." The king went out disguised in quest of the happiest man in his 
realm and -finally came upon a very humble person who was laughing by the 
wayside, and entered into a conversation with him. "Art thou happy?'* 
asked the king. "I have not a moment of trouble," answered the man. 
"I am happy day and night; life with me is one continuous round of joy." 
The king threw back his cloak and said: "I am the king of the realm, give 
me thy shirt." The man smiled and ptilled open his coat of rags and said : 
"I haven't got any." The shirtless man went laughing on through the 
world while the mighty king went sighing back to his throne. 


By some means Uncle Ephraham found out that Uncle Si had slipped in 
and stolen his hot 'possum an' 'taters that night he thought he had eaten it 
himself in his sleep, and he resolved on dire revenge. He crept over cautiously 
to old Si's cabin and listened at the door to hear him snoring that night, and 
slipping in, he stole the old snoozer's breeches and shoes and hid them ; then 
going out in the chimney corner where the fishing poles stood, he inserted 
a very long gourd handle through a crack in the wall right under Si's bed and 
blew an unearthly "honk!" on it, that would have startled a marble statue. 

"Lan' o' Goshen! What wuz dat?" whispered Si, as he tumbled out of 
bed, bringing all the bed-clothes. 

"It is Gabrihell's ghos' come atter you fur stealin' uv Ephraham 's 'possum ! 
OF Si, you greedjus or sinner, 'pare to die!" said a deep, sepulchral voice 
through the gourd-handle, as it gave another resounding blast. 

"Dat sure is de resmerection ho'n," chattered the affrighted Si, as he 
reached for the place where his breeches usually reposed, and fumbling vainly 

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around in the dark, he muttered: "Wunner whar dem dratted britches is 
misconducted deyselves?" 

"Sperits don' w'ar no britches whar you's a-gwine," said Gabriel. "Jes' 
lay down dar on de flo' 'n die lak dat 'possum you done stole 'n et. De huss'U 
be 'long in a minit," and the resmerection angel extemporized a lot of splut- 
tering, hawking, screeching sounds through the gourd-handle, doubtless in- 
tended to soothe Si's perturbed emotions, but which would have surprised 
Gabriel and made a graven image's flesh crawl. 

Si didn't wait to have any more "congulgions" with the ghost, but broke 
out the cabin door barefoot in the snow, with his scanty shirt flapping saluta- 
tions to the whistling winds, and bursting in at Uncle Eph's empty cabin he 
was shivering and jibbering under the bed when its owner came calmly in in 
seeming blissful ignorance that Judgment Day was come. He fished Si out 
from under the bed and went after his breeches and shoes before Si began to 
get his scattered wits in shape and incoherently 'splain the situation, wind- 
ing up with the propitiating avowal: 

"Unc' Eph, 'clar to goodness dat 'possum o' yourn jes' up 'n follered me 
out'n dis house. I dim come in to ax you howdy and dat 'possiun jes' riz up, 
he did, an' chase me out, but I gwin'er ketch you forty-leben 'possums nax 
week, sure I is." 

Si was the hero of the quarter next day when it was known the resmerec- 
tion angel had honored him with a visit, and he proudly proclaimed: 

"I'd a bin in* glory rate dis minit, sho', but ol' Peter wouldn't let me in 
'mongst de angels 'dout my britches on." 


Happiness will flee from a palace to dwell in a hovel; it will turn its 
back upon a king to be the companion of a pauper. Wealth cannot buy it; 
power and position are its enemies ; it hides its face in the presence of frown- 
ing ambition; it loves to dwell among the hills where contentment sings, 
and where nature rocks the cradles of poets and orators. 

Of course there are a few exceptions to the rule that happiness cannot 
be found among the great and powerful of earth. It has been known in a 
few instants to occupy 3, seat in the United States Senate. 

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paints the shad- 
his canvas ; the 

In every brain there is a bright 
phantom realm, where fancied pleas- 
ures beckon from distant shores; but 
when we launch our barks to reach 
them, they vanish, and beckon again 
from still more distant shores. And 
so, poor fallen man pursues the ghosts 
of paradise as the deluded dog chases 
the shadows of flying birds in the 

The painter only 
ows of beauty on 
sculptor only chis- 
els its lines and 
curves from the 
marble; the sweet- 
est melody is but 
the faint echo of 
the wooing voice of 

We stumble over 
the golden nuggets 
of contentment in 
pursuit of the 
phantomsof wealth, 
and what is wealth ? 
It cannot purchase 
a moment of hap- 
piness. Marble 
halls may open wide 
their doors and of- 
fer shelter, but hap- 
piness will flee from 
a palace to dwell 
in a cottage. We 
crush under our 

Chasing the shadow* of Hying birds 

feet the roses of peace and love in our 
eagerness to reach the illuminated 
heights of glory; and what is earthly 

" He who ascends to mountain tops shall 

The loftiest peaks are wrapped in clouds 

and snow; 
He who surpasses or subdues mankind, 
Must look down on the hate of those below. 
Though high above the sun of glory glow, 
And far beneath the earth and ocean spread, 
'Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow 
Contending tempests on his naked head." 

I saw a come- 
dian convulse thou- 
sands with his de- 
lineations of the 
weaknesses of hu- 
manity in the in- 
imitable "Rip Van 
Winkle." I saw 
him make laughter 
hold its sides, as 
h e impersonated 
the coward in "The 
Rivals;" and I 
said: "I wo ul d 
rather have the 
power of Joseph 
Jefferson, to make 
the world laugh, 
and to drive care 
and trouble from 
weary brains and 
sorrow from heavy 
w hearts, than to 

wear the blood- 

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I'would rather live in a cabin than be the archangel of war 

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stained laurels of military glory, 
or to be President of the Unit- 
ed States, burdened with bonds 
and rold, and overwhelmed 
with the double standard and 
three girl babies. 

It is the false ideal that 
builds the "Paradise of Fools." 
It is the eagerness to achieve 
success in realms we cannot 
reach, which breeds more than 
half the ills that curse the 
world. If all the fish eggs 
were to hatch, and every little 
fish become a big fish, the 
oceans would be pushed from 
their beds, and the rivers would 
be eternally "dammed" — with 
fish; but the whales, and 
sharks, and sturgeons, and dog- 
fish, and eels, and snakes, and 
turtles, make three meals every 
day in the year on fish and fish 
eggs. If all the legal spawn 
should hatch out lawyers, the 
earth and the fulness thereof 
would be mortgaged for fees 
and mankind would starve to 
death in the effort to pay off 
the "aforesaid and the same." 
If the entire crop of medical 
eggs should hatch out full- 
fledged doctors, old "Skull and Cross 
Bones" would hold high carnival 
among the children of men, and the 
old sexton would sing: 

" I gather them in, 
I gather them in." 

If I could get the ear of the young 
men who pant after politics, as the 
hart panteth after the wtater brooks, 
I would exhort them to seek honors 
in some other way, for "Jordan is a 
hard road to travel." 

The poet truly said: "How like a 
mounting" devil in the heart is the 
unreined ambition. Let it once but 
play the monarch, and its haughty 
brow glows with a beauty that be- 
wilders thought and unthrones peace 
forever. Putting on the very pomp 
of Lucifer, it turns the heart to ashes, 
and with not a spring left in the bos- 
om for the spirit's lip, we look upon 
our splendor and forget the thirst of 
which we perish." 

Victor Hugo said of Napoleon th« 
Great: "The frontiers of kingdoms 
oscillated on the map. The sound of 
a superhuman sword being drawn 
from its scabbard could be heard ; and 
he was seen, opening in the thunder 
his two wings, the Grand Army and 
the Old Guard ; he was the archangel 
of war." And when I read it I 
thought of the death and terror that 
followed wherever the shadow of the 
open wings fell. I thought of the 
blood that flowed, and the tears that 
were shed wherever the sword 
gleamed in his hand. I thought of 
the human skulls that paved Napo- 
leon's way to St. Helena's barren 
rock, and I said, "I would rather 
dwell in a log cabin, in the beautiful 
land of the mountains where I was 
born and reared, and sit at its humble 
hearthstone at night, and in the fire- 
light, play the humble rural tunes on 
the fiddle to my happy children, and 

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bask in the smiles of my sweet wife, oscillate on the map of the world,' 

than to be the 'archangel of war,' with and then, away from home and kin- 

my hands stained with human blood, dred and country, die at last in exile 

or to make the 'frontiers of kingdoms and in solitude." 

Jn exile and solitude 


When all the changing colors of spring arc fresh unfurled 

And little bits o' babies, beribboned and becurled, 

Are out, the joy of living just seems to swamp the world. 

The very joy of living — the babies' far-blown mirth, 
The bursting buds and blossoms ; when everything of worth 
Is flaunting till it seems like the childhood of the earth. 

The childhood of Creation! the jasmine, rose and phlox, 
Forget-me-nots and daisies, and pathways lined with box; 
And little bits 'o babies with yellow, ribboned locks. 

Just little bits o' babies with little bits o' toys, 

And yellow hair all tousled; just little girls and boys, 

And the world grown young and glad and full of happy noise. 

Judd Mortimer Lewis. 

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The scene in St. Petersburg last 

month when more than one hundred 

peasants lined the long hall on the 

left of the throne un- 

The Nemesis of cowed and unafraid 

Progress, of the Little Father 

was dramatic enough. 

At last the voice of the people has 
reached the ears of the Czar in truth 
and in earnest. Nor did the poverty 
of the peasant cringe below the white 
splendor of his sovereign. It is one 
of the last great triumphs of Democ- 
racy, that ice-bound Russia should 
have found every congealed artery of 
her soul melted in the warmth of 
human liberty, equality and fraternity. 
There can be no question but that on* 
of the most interesting developments 
of the world's history will be the story 
of Russian Democracy, one of whose 
most fascinating chapters is now be- 
in? written. Twelve years ago, Ivan 
Petrunkevitch handed the Czar an ad- 
dress of loyalty which said in plain- 
Russian words, that his country need- 
ed and was ready for a Constitution 
and Parliament. The Little Father 
replied, that such talk was a senseless 
dream. The tide was coming in. 
Twelve more years followed in which 
it rose higher and higher and now 
dramatically enough in the St. Peters- 
burg Palace, Ivan Petrunkevitch, first 
speaker of the Russian douma, de- 
manded amnesty for all those who la- 
bored and suffered that a Russian 
National Assembly might be. More 
interesting than any novel will be the 
story of how Russia came to herself. 
If it be without further bloodshed, the 
world will be glad. A curious coinci- 
dence made the douma convene on the 
anniversary of the French States Gen- 
eral, in 1789. There is more than one 
parallel between the condition of 
France then and Russia now. The 
French king and nobles would not 

bend before the wind of the people's 
will, so they were broken. It remains 
to be seen whether history will repeat 

We are witnessing of late days a 
very wonderful change in religious 
sentiment and action. During the past 

month the churches 

A New Spirit in have played an im- 

the Churches portant part in the 

making of American 
news, and it is interesting news that 
they have furnished, especially to those 
who have taken the time and trouble 
to learn somewhat of the past in 
church history. A new age and a 
new spirit have come in religious cir- 
cles. There have been certain broad 
outlines which have characterized ec- 
clesiastical conditions during the past 
ages. For many years after the found- 
ing of Christianity, the Greek spirit of 
philosophy dominated its develop- 
ment. The subtleties of Hellenic 
transcendentalism and old-world here- 
sies of a hundred sorts were drawn in 
and out of the stream of development. 
The great and predominating thought 
in that age was the construction of a 
thoroughgoing theology. Right well 
was it done. Doctrine must needs be 
defined and the way of faith made 
plain. This spirit lasted until that of 
the Roman superseded it, when the 
spirit of organization became the pre- 
dominating influence. The theology 
having been settled in the main, there 
was left the organization of Christian- 
ity to be perfected. To do this was 
a task of centuries. Little by little, the 
chorepiscopi gave allegiance to the 
metropolitan bishops and they in turn 
bowed before the five great patriarchs. 
When the Saracen had swept away all 
but one of these, it seemed just and 
right that the patriarch of Rome 

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should be exalted to the office of 
the supreme Father, Pope. Many 
hundreds of years more were taken 
to establish the doctrine of Papal su- 
premacy, to concatenate the whole 
wonderful fabric of the Roman Catho- 
lic Church and to place that church 
at the head of all European religion 
and politics. Then came a renaissance, 
with its flood of light, of revolution 
and reformation — the renaissance 
which brought almost as much mis- 
ery to earth as it did happiness, but 
which purged the world with fire and 
left it cleaner, sweeter and holier. But 
it brought with it a new spirit known 
to history as the Protestant or Divisive 
Spirit. The great Schism came and 
then a thousand minor Schisms. The 
Protestant Church became divided in- 
to a hundred sects and these again 
into a hundred sub-sects, until it would 
have taken an adding machine to 
count their number. Some slight dif- 
ference in belief, as to how the 
church should be governed, how bap- 
tism should be administered, how 
services should be conducted, how pas- 
tors should be paid, how hymns should 
be sung, how this or that doctrine 
should be pronounced, seemed a good 
and sufficient reason for the organiza- 
tion of a new church, and the anath- 
ematization of all others. It was 
this spirit that continued almost down 
to the present time, but recently an- 
other change has come over the 
churches, a new influence dominates 
them, a new spirit. What shall we 
Cc 1 it? 

Last month there was consum- 
mated the union of the Cumberland 
Presbyterian Church with that of the 
Northern body, from 
The Federal which it was separated 
Spirit early in the nineteenth 

century. In Canada 
Methodists, Presbyterians and Con- 
gregationalists have gotten together 
on a common basis. There is on foot 
also in this country a movement for the 
federation of all denominations hold- 
ing to the reformed faith and governed 
by Presbyterian models. The Metho- 
dists are talking of organic union and 

it has become the order of the day to 
wiash out the old lines of separation. 
Federation has come instead of di- 
vision, and though there be those who 
would stay the wheel of progress, it 
is too late. The road is smooth and 
easy ; the momentum is great and the 
drivers are very determined. A cor- 
ollary of this condition of affairs is the 
diminution of interest in dogma. Old- 
time theology is good and theoreti- 
cally to be desired, but practically unin- 
teresting. Its tendency is toward di- 
vision itself, which is out of accord 
with the spirit of the time. It is a 
fact, therefore, that its death seems to 
be necessary in order that the churches 
may get together. It is as if a wheel 
had been buried in the mud, each spoke 
symbolizing a denomination. The 
theological mud (do we riot call it 
theological mud slinging?) which fills 
the interstices between the spokes 
must be dug out before we can see 
that all the churches are united in a 
common hub. Hands are not wanting 
to dig away this mud. In fact, there 
is danger that part of the essentials 
of the wheels ma)rbe injured by a too 
reckless hatred of everything theologi- 
cal, and that men will forget that the 
presence of non-essentials indicates the 
importance of the essential. It is a 
curious fact, that there are hundreds 
■of men in the pulpits of America to- 
day, who believe practically what the 
arch-heretic Hume believed. Yet they 
are the pastors and shepherds of the 
people. Perhaps the pendulum has 
swung too far in its desire to oust 
theology. But it is good to know that 
the churches are uniting even at the 
sacrifice of a few distinctive principles. 

The fact that the American people 
will eventually develope a love of the 
beautiful has received strong support 

in a number of recent 

Aesthetic movements. The 

America White Mountains, 

which include Mount 
Washington, are not to be handed over 
to the lumber companies to be denuded 
of their magnificent forests, but may 
be made the nucleus of a forest pre- 

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serve. Hook Mountain, on the Hud- 
son, is not to be quarried any longer, 
but is to be made into a park by the 
New York Legislature. The Appa- 
lachian Forest Reserve, the most mag- 
nificent opportunity of them all, at 
present seems in a fair way to be con- 
summated. Cities like Washington, 
Cleveland, St. Louis, Kansas City, are 
remodeling their entire park system. 
Baltimore is being made beautiful and 
new San Francisco, constructed on 
better lines, and more lovely, is aris- 
ing. Boston has decreed that "brim- 
stone corner" shall remain as a his- 
toric spot untouched. There is move- 
ment on foot in Nashville, Tennessee, 
for the building of a boulevard from 
that city to the Hermitage, in memory 
of Andrew Jackson. The awakening 
of our municipalities toward the need 
of things beautiful is not the least of 
the good signs of the times. 

If the air is not cleared in the scho- 
lastic world by Mr. Carnegie's foun- 
dation for the advancement of teach- 
ing, it will not be the 
Dignifying a f au i t Q f the trustees 
ffoble f that gift. One of 

Profession t h e useful things the 
Committee is doing, 
is to establish an acceptable basis and 
definition of what a college really is 
and what constitutes ah education. 
The use of the foundation will proba- 
bly be as important in this respect as 
in its original purpose, which was to 
provide retiring pensions for teachers 
and professors, who have spent many 
years in their work and who otherwise 
would be unprovided for. The great 
object of the foundation, however, is 
not so much to care for the individual • 
or to prevent individual suffering, but 
it is to make dignified the profession 
of teaching on the North American 
Continent, and to provide for those 
who give their life to such noble work 
a competence, when they are no longer 
able to earn their modest income. The 
intention of the trustees is to establish 
the principle of the retiring pension 
to American academic life. The 
amount given by Mr. Carnegie brings 

an annual income of half a million 
dollars, which, of course, is inadequate 
to provide for the more than 6,000 
teachers in the more than 300 colleges 
in America. The Board is now con- 
sidering the adoption of rules which 
will limit the application of this fund 
to State institutions as well as to those 
owned and operated by some sect or 
denomination. They have- adopted the 
definition of a college as given in the 
revised ordinances of the State of 
New York. It reads, "An institution 
to be ranked as a college must have 
at least six professors giving their en- 
tire time to college and university 
work, a course of four full years in 
liberal arts and sciences, and should 
require for admission not less than 
the usual four years of academic or 
high school preparation, or its equiva- 
lent in addition to the pre-academic 
or grammar school studies." To this, 
the Trustees of the Carnegie founda- 
tion have added one other require- 
ment, namely, that a college must have 
a productive endowment of $200,000. 
If only to act as a unifying force in 
American education, Mr. Carnegie was 
warranted in making his gift. 

Now that the earthquake at San 

Francisco has passed into history and 

has been almost forgotten by many, it 

is easier to understand 

The Trial of ; t in its relation to 

Man's Work American life. In the 
hysteria of the mo- 
ment, there were those who styled the 
earthquake and the resultant fire, 
"God's messengers to destroy a wicked 
and blasphemous city." There were 
others who said it had come as a 
grand opportunity for the rebuilding 
ef a greater, lovelier community. 
There were still others who predicted 
the ruin of San Francisco's wealth and 
prosperity forever. We can now 
know that none of these prophets 
spake for God. Those upon whom 
the tower of Siloam fell were no more 
wicked than they who dwelt in Jerusa- 
lem. San Francisco may be a larger 
city than she has been, though proba- 
bly not §0 large 3s she woyld have 

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been, yet her prospects are not by any 
means absolutely ruined. The bales 
of merchandise that come from over 
the seas, will pass in their accustomed 
way through the Golden Gate. Yet 
such ports as Seattle must necessarily 
be benefited by the misfortune of the 
Southern metropolis. Galveston has 
bravely built her sea wall, but many 
are still afraid to live there. There 
was more than one lesson for the mor- 
alist in the destruction of San Fran- 
cisco, none perhaps so striking as that 
drawn from the remarkable ability of 
the steel structures to stand the earth- 
quake, while the ordinary houses of 
brick and stone were absolutely de- 
stroyed by the shock and the frame 
houses swept away by the fire. The 
steel structures twelve and fifteen stor- 
ies high stood the strain practically 
uninjured. Never in the history of 
the world has there been so complete 
an illustration of how the builder's 
work should be tested by fire and 
earthquake. But yesterday, the pass- 
ing stranger could see no difference 
between two structures which stood 
side by side, eqiyri in appearance and 
value. To-day one has been taken and 
the other left. It is as though each 
building had the character of a man. 

If the discussion concerning Mr. 
Woodrow Wilson as the Democratic 
nominee for President continues much 
longer it will soon be taken se- 

From Princeton i° usl - v „ T ¥ l ™ th °. f 
to the * matter 1S > there is 

White House " ot at P™ 8 * 5111 j" the 
Democratic ranks any 

man who is a superior of Mr. Wilson, 
either as a student of Statecraft and 
political economy, or as an available 
and trustworthy candidate for Presi- 
dential honors. He has the advantage 
of being a Southern man living in a 
Northern State. He has the further 
advantage of being known to the best 
thinkers of this country by the writ- 
ten page v His works in civics and his- 
tory are masterpieces. He is a man of 
affairs. He is a conservative. He is 
a Democrat. He is a statesman of the 
first water. He has as attractive a 
personality as any man anywhere. He 

W beloved by hundreds, honored by 
thousands, respected by millions. 
Luckily he is not known as a politi- 
cian, has no pld scores to settle, nor 
any favorites to advance. He is such 
a man as the Democratic party might 
do well to honor. 

There was a little matter last month 
which brought to the light very inter- 
esting facts concerning the Egyptian 

situation. The Red 

A Little s ea divides on the 

Weather-Vane north into two arms, 

the western one form- 
ing the Gulf of Suez and that to the 
east, the Gulf of Akabah. For a long 
while the question of the sovereignty 
of Egypt has been on the point of 
change. As is well known, the Khe- 
dive pays a regular tribute to the Sul- 
tan, and yet the British interests .in 
Egypt have so enormously increased 
in late years and have been so officially 
registered in the Anglo-French treaty 
of recent date, that it had begun to 
appear possible that before long, Egypt 
should cease to be even nominally a 
Turkish dependency. The red smear 
of British paint had been slowly grow- 
ing thicker on the Khedive's country. 
When the Turkish Government took 
possession of Tabah, it seemed more 
than likely that it was done as much 
as anything else, that the question of 
territory might be referred to a mixed 
tribunal composed of representatives 
of the Ottoman and Egyptian Em- 
pires. With that careful insight 
which has characterized the British 
foreign policy, however, 'British sub- 
jects were substituted for Egyptians. 
It seemed quite possible that back of 
the Sultan's courage was the army of 
Germany. Of recent years, Germany's 
interest in Arabia and Asia Minor 
have grown to a point of predomi- 
nance. The new railroads in the Sul- 
tan's territory, in which Germany is 
primarily interested, seem to have as 
their chief object the strengthening 
of military defenses as much as the 
development of the commercial pos- 
sibilities of Arabia. Since the Tabah 
incident, it seems only a question of a 
little while before Egyptian tributes 

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to the Sultan will be discontinued. 
Perhaps Germany and England may 
yet shake hands with one another 
across the Gulf of Akabah. 

It really seems hard now-a-days to 
define heresy. Even the highly unor- 
thodox belief of the Rev. Algernon 

Crapsey has found 

Heresy, the Un- ma ny sympathizers in 

definable Sin the Episcopal Church. 

Dr. Crapsey not only 
denied the miraculous element in the 
Bible but went far beyond Dr. Briggs 
in his acceptance of the theological 
results of Higher Criticism. The re- 
ligious world has grown accustomed to 
what used to be known as heresy, and 
and not .the least of the signs of the 
times, is the growing toleration of all 
kinds of belief in the realms ecclesias- 
tical. It has become unpopular to in- 
sist that others shall believe as you be- 
lieve. But let no man think that there- 
fore the foundations of the great deep 
are being broken up. Truth is only 
safe when error is at liberty. The 
one. opportunity for right thinking is 
that wrong thinking should be allowed 

perfect freedom. The fundamentals 
of Christianity are not in danger, nor 
are the churches as organizations like- 
ly to be damaged. One age finds that 
it must modify somewhat its theology 
to meet changing conditions, not by 
changing truth, which is inevitable, 
but in changing the interpretation of 
truth, which varies as the souls of men 
vary, as the spirit of the times varies, 
as the customs of the people vary. 
Severus would not be burned to-day 
even if John Calvin were his judge. 
It is quite possible that if Luther were 
alive in this age, he might be a friend 
of the higher critics. Certain it is that 
forms change, but Faith remains. 
Symbols vary, but the Christian life is 
as excellent and powerful and pure in 
this twentieth century as it was among 
the disciples of Christ. Let no man 
be afraid of his age. It is not an 
age of licentiousness in theological 
thought." Reactionaries may call it 
a time of latitudinarianism, but those 
who are in sympathy with its spirit, 
know it is an age of liberalism, fra- 
ternity, morality, reverence, for that 
which deserves reverence and infinite 
contempt for sham and hypocrisy. 


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Photo 6y Calvert Brother* j 

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Photo (y Branton 


Photo by Ltoely. 

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Photo by Calvert Brothers 

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Photo by Calvert Drothcn 

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Photo by Lively 

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itoo h> Timtt 

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Photo by Brakebill & McCoy 

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Photo ft? Thuss 

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Photo bp B. Raba 

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Photo by Calvert Brothers 

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Unveiled at Charlotte, Mecklenburg County, North Carolina, May 20, 1898, to 
commemorate the signing- of the declaration of independence at that place May 20, 
1775. The monument bears, among other inscriptions, the names of the original 
signers, twenty-seven in all. 

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By John Marshall Kelly 

IWUZ par'lized out dah 'while 
ago, my brudderns an' my sis- 
terns, by one uv dem smaht chil- 
len uv yoah'n axin up in de Sab- 
buth school 'bout w'at de les'in mean 
by sayin' "De Lawd he tempah de 
win' teh de sho'n lam'," an' tryin' teh 
'splain 'bout hit, an' I'se so agitated 
ovah w'at wuz onnecessary impuhti- 
nence an' onspirityil levity dat I'se 
gwine talk teh you-all 'bout hit dis 

I'se teached you-all 'bout fohty 
odd yeahs, an' Fse preached you-all 
too, an' in dat time I'se suttinly won 
de right teh be cornsidehed befoah 
any uv dese whippehsnappehs w'at 
hev ben off teh school teh Alcohn Col- 

lege or teh Mist' Bookah Wash'n- 
town's Tuskeegy. 

I know I'se not w'at some folks 
calls a skollahd, but I'se got sense if I 
isn't, an' I'se got moah'n all dem smaht 
kids has got, foh I'se got inspiration, 
an' w'at I doan know 'bout de meanin' 
uv wuhds f'om l'arnin' or f'om com- 
mon sense I knows kaze de Lawd puts 
de meanin' in my haid an' de wuhds 
in my mouf. 

"De Lawd tempahs de win' teh de 
sho'n lam*," de tex' say, an' dat ram- 
busterous boy out dah he say hit mean 
de Lawd mek hit easier; dat he keep 
dat win' f'om freezin' de sheep 
w'at ben sheahed, an' lakwise he 
say hit mean dat de Lawd am 

W'at I duan know 'bout de meanin' uv wuhda f'om larnin' er f'om common sense I know* ka«o de Lawd 
puts de meanin' in my haid an' de wuhds in my mouf 

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de thing w'at 
meks us talk 
' sassy an' hit back 
er kick de man 
w'a t's d o w n. 
Hit's de thing 
w'at meks you 
o n regenerate 
sinnahs shoot 
craps wif loaded 
dice an' tek de 
money uv de po- 
ah little lambses 
w'at thinks all 
dices is squah 
an' dat a ace spot 
weighs de same 
as de deuce er de 
six an' dat hit 
will come up hits 
equal numbah uv 

Tempah, m y 
fohgettable hear- 
ehs, am dat thing 
w'at meks you 
beat yoah wives 
eryoah wives beat 
you, as de case 
may be, an* am 
dat thing dat 
meks you hit 
some little fellah, 
an' teh hit him 
ofteneh dan you 
would a man 
w'at could hit 
back an' as hahd 
as you does, an 
w'at meks you 
whip yoah chil- 
len foh doin' de 
things same as 
w'at you did 
brb'r simon w'en you wuz 

young, an' w'at 
muhciful teh we-alls w'en we is you has told dem erbout an* laffed 
in trouble. ovah w'en you wuz in er good humor. 

I wants fu'st teh show you-all de Yas, my impatien' hearehs, tem- 
meanin' uv de wuhd tempah, so dat pah am all dat, an' w'en you cornsid- 
you-all kin see de foolishness uv dat ehs de tex' you has teh cornsideh 
persition, an' teh show you dat de tempah in dat light too, an* 'membah 
Lawd uses a wuhd two or th'ee ways, dat de tempah win' doan alwus wrop 
jis' as we-all does ouh ownselves. a cloak uv muhcy 'round de poah lit- 

"Tempah means in de fu'st place, tie neckid sheepses. 
my lubly hearehs, dat paht uv us w'at An' wif dat as a foahrunneh uv 
gits mad, er gits ovah bein' mad; ernotheh thought, I now comes, you 

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onregenerate puhvuhtehs uv de Wuhd 
uv Gawd, teh ernother kin' uv tempah, 
de tempah dat stren'thens an' meks 
hahd, de tempah, as it wuz, by fiah. 

You onregenerate bucks w'at goes 
out foh bad coons an' packs a razzur 
in yoah cloze foh teh slash de poah 
little lambses w'at kick w'en you 
sheahs 'em, er teh slosh each othah 
w'en you quarrels ovah de wool; an' 
you fashi'nubble gemmen w'at sac- 
refices yoah beahd w'at de good Lawd 
gib you foh adohnment an' teh hide 
de irregulahities uv yoah countenanc- 
es, an' goes clean shaved er only 
weahs er moustache kaze hits style, 
all knows w'at tempah am teh er raz- 
zur an' how needcessary hit am teh 
raek de blade wuf a shuck. . 

You knows, you fightin' niggahs, 
how wuthless am de blade w'at nicks 
or tuhns, an' how tryin' teh de soul 
hit am teh hev yo' razzur break on de 
bone w'en you cuts, er teh hit er but- 
ton an' break. I membah w'en I wuz 
er young spoht — heah, you niggahs 
back dah, you hush; dis am no time 
teh laff. Dey ain' no call teh laff in 
chu'ch, ner teh snicker at w'at yoah 
pahson say. You's mistakin an' dat 
wuz only er lopsis lingery, w'at means 
dat my tongue made er slip, not bein' 
propehly clothed foh de 'casion. Now 
laff at dat, you mutton-heads, ef you 
has sense 'nough teh see er joke. 

As I wuz gwine teh say, w'en I wuz 
er young man, goin' 'round bowed 
down wif de sins uv de wuhld an' 
sighin' ovah de puhvuhsities uv humin 
natur, an' worryin' ovah de frailties 
uv de or^nary humin carcase, so teh 
'xpress myself in de classical language 
uv de ministry, hit were a sorreh teh 
my soul teh obsuhve how many young 
min wuz given teh sich things an' er 
joy teh my h'aht teh see dat some 
times de razzur r.v my sinful friens' 
^yuz not propehly tempah'd ; an' I no- 
ticed often how some poah sinful soul 
met grief an' wuz downed kaze de 
tempah uv his razzur wuz bad, an' his 
adve'sary smote him hip an' thigh, as 
de patriarch so beautifully said. 

Now you-all undehstand w'at tem- 
pah am, an' you'll see w'at am meant 

w'en you reads dat "de Lawd he tem- 
pahs de win' teh de shohn lam'." 

W'y, niggahs, you s'pose de Lawd 
gwine pay all de penalty an' let you- 
all go an' play lambses, an' not do 
nuffin teh bring home teh you the 
cornsekinses uv wrong doin'? Nary. 
er time. He gwine teh dissipplin you 
an' he gwine tempah de win' so you 
'membah de fleece w'at you done had 
an' los', an' so w'en he gib you er- 
nothah one you hev sense 'nough teh 
keep hit. 

Bre'r Simon ovah dah he pass foh 
er good man, an' he shout in de 'vivals 
many yeahs an' petition de Th'one oft 
an' agin, an* you'd think de Lawd 
would look out foh him an' some uv 
you would think hit mighty quare he 
warn't pertected, yit w'en he went 
down theah teh Vicksburg an' got in 
de crap game wif dem strange nig- 
gahs w'at de Lawd do, hey? W'at'd 
he do, I say? He jis' tempahed de win' 
teh de sho'n lam'. 

You needn't look so 'sprised, Bre'r 
Simon; we's onto you, an' hit's time 
de o'casion ariz foh me teh speak out 
an' k'rect you ; you thinks we-all doan 
know nuffin 'bout dat, but some uv us 
do, an' all uv we-all will in er minit, 
an' I'se gwine p'int er moril. 

Bre'r Siriion hed fohty dollahs, 
brudderns an' sisterns; fohty dollahs 
an' eighty seven centses, an* he woah 
er plug hat an' paten' leathah shoes 
an' good cloze, an' he thought w'en 
he went teh de Babtis' 'Sociation 
down dah dat he wuz de wahmest 
thing dat evah went ovah de pike. 

Well, he wuz wahm, vehy wahm, 
but w'en dem othah plug-hat spohts 
got th'oo wif him he didn't feel 
wahm outside anyway. 

He wuz wahm clean th'oo; he 
wuz hot, but atter losin' his money on 
er pair uv craps dat wuz lopsided, he 
put up his plug hat, an' his shoes an* 
hi$ cloze teh try teh git hit back, an' 
de cool weathah kep' hirti f'om sizzlin' 
on de outside. 

Hit am a cryin' shame, brudderns 
an' sisterns, foh er bruddeh teh git 
cotched dat away, an' hit sho'ly am er 
shame foh er deakin uv de chu'ch teh 

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be lef wifout any close, an' you'd 
think de Lawd'd tempah de win teh 
de poah lamb. 

Well, he did, vehy gently, an* put 
hit in de heaht uv de good sistern 
w'at he wuz boahdin' wif teh gib Bre'r 
Simon a paih uv her ol' man's sum- 
mer pantses, an' den let Bre'r Simon 
creep out undah covah uv de kin'ly 
shadows uv de night an* hit de ties 
all de way back heah in de col'. 

Now heah I* meks my p'int an' 
k'rects Bre'r Simon bofe teh oncet, an' 
de p'int am dis : Did de Lawd tempah 
de win' teh de sho'n lam'? He sho' 
did; an' he tempahed hit good an' 
strong, an' he made poah Bre'r Simon 
hump hisself up at erbout er two-forty 
gait all dat night kaze dah wuz iticles 
freezin' on his w'iskers an' er droppin' 
on his bare col' feetses. 

Fohty miles am good walkin' twixt 
dahk an' day, but Bre'r Simon wuz 
boun' teh git heah befoah any uv us 
seed him, an' de tempah de Lawd put 
in dat win' sho' made him move er- 

De Lawd tempahed de win', an' he 
tempahed hit lak de blacksmith tem- 
pahs steel, an' put er fine edge on hit 
an' lashed him an' slashed him an' 
socked him in de neck an' whipped 
'round in his poah thin shirt an' his 
borrered summah trousies an' sho' gib 
him de time uv his life. 

Did you evah see any mil' tempah in 
de Lawd's win' foh de poah fool w'at 
doan keep in de straight an' narrah 
path? No suh, not once, an' you see 
de fellah w'at fool erway his money 
hev teh lib on pohk an' cohn bread all 
summah an' de man w'at git cheated 
outen his mule hev teh walk all de 
time, an' de woman w'at don't do 
right, she hev teh beah de brunt uv 
hit all too. 

Nobody nevah 'cused Sistah Maria 
Sandahs uv bein er sinnah, an' we-all 
know dat she am er good Christian, 
an' has done her paht teh bring up her 
seb'n chil'len w'at ain' nevah had no 
pa; an' dat if de Lawd should evah 
ketch her sho'n he'd sho'ly tempah de 
win' mild teh her rtobody even doubt- 
ed, but he sho' hit her hahd th'oo 
dat youngest gal uv hern. 

We-all know dat w'en little Maria 
tuk up wif dat wuthless yallah buck 
uv er crap shooter f 'om Indianola dat 
de Lawd'd strike her good an' hahd 
'kaze she oughter ben satisfied teh tek 
one uv de boys heah at home w'at'd 
be sho' teh tek good keer uv her an' 
de chillen. But no, dat wouldV do 
her an' she jis' sniffed at all ouh boys 
an' would'n' listen teh nobody. 

Aftah dat no 'count niggah'd done 
gone off an' lef her we-all said dat 
hit suhved her right, an' dat she'd hev 
trouble nuff teh tek keer uv de chile, 
but massy sakes! none uv us evah 
thought de Law'd tempah de win' so 
hahd, an' gib de poah gal triplets teh 
suppoht ! 

Yes, sah ! Th'ee uv 'em, an' dey dat 
h'ahty an' strong dey couldn't be killed 
wif a meat ax, an' now her ma she 
hey teh stay teh home an' nuss 'em, 
w'ile little Maria she wuhk hahd all 
de day in de fiel' teh suppoht 'em all an' 
hire a cow teh git nuff milk teh fill dem 
th'ee hungry little moufs. 

Lawd, Lawd! bore a hole in dese 
poah niggahs' haids, an' poah in a 
little sense. He'p 'em teh receive un- 
duhstandin' so dey will know dat you 
tempahs de win' strong as well as 
weak, dat you tempahs de blade uv 
advuhsity into steel an' not pot-metal. 
He'p 'em, O Lawd, teh see dat you 
doan do evahything for 'em, an' dat 
you gives 'em bad, an' lots uv hit, as 
well as good. He'p 'em teh know dat 
Johdan am er hahd road teh trabble 
an' dat dey has got teh pull off dey 
coat an' roll up dey sleeves. 

In conclusion I want teh say, my 
brudderns an' sisterns, dat you mus' 
not expec' teh git evehythin' foh nuf- 
fin' ; dat we need not ax teh go teh 
heavin on flow'ry beds uv ease, an' 
lakwise you had bettah not tampah 
wif de wuhd uv de Lawd, an' be tuhn- 
in' hit teh suit yo' needs, but you mus' 
come to yo' sperityil head an' pasture 
w'en you wants any loosydashins. 
Now please rise an' jine in de singin' 
uv dese wuhds: 

"Tempah de win' teh de lambs, oh Lawd. 
Tempah hit teh de sheeps, 
Show 'em dat Thou's er doin' uv thini^s, 
An' doin' uv 'em foh keeps." 

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Charles Joseph Bonaparte was born 
in Baltimore on June 9, 1851. His 
father was Jerome Napoleon Bona- 
parte, the son of Jerome Bonaparte, 
brother of Napoleon I, and for some 
years King of Westphalia, and Eliza- 

Thomas Mills Day, of Hartford, 
Conn. They have no children. He 
was for twelve years an overseer of 
Harvard,' has been for many years a 
Trustee of the Enoch Pratt Free Li 
brary in Baltimore, and is at present 


betb Patterson, of Baltimore. He was 
educated in schools* and by private 
futors in or near Baltimore until 
he entered Harvard College. After 
graduation he was admitted to the Bar, 
and has since then practiced his pro- 
fession, principally in the courts of 
Maryland. He was married on Sep- 
tember 1st, 1875, at Newport, R. I., 
to Ellen Channing Day, daughter of 

a Trustee of the Catholic University 
of America. He has been and is still 
connected with various organizations 
intended to promote Civil Service Re- 
form, Municipal Reform, Charity Or- 
ganization, Suppression of Vice, and 
other purposes of analogous nature. 
In 1895, during a period of great po- 
litical excitement in Baltimore, he 
served for some weeks as Supervisor 

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of Elections. In the autumn of 1902, 
President Roosevelt appointed him 
one of the Board of Indian Commis- 
sioners ; in June, 1903, one of the Spe- 
cial Counsel to investigate Postal 
frauds and prosecute the offenders, 
and later in the same year, Special In- 
spector to report on alleged abuses in 
the Indian Territory. In 1904 he was 

There is probably no ltoian in Wash- 
ington whose interests cclver a greater 
range of subjects than dot those of Mr. 
Henry B. F. Macfarland.I Reared in 
Washington and the son lof a promi- 
nent journalist, he became* the Wash- 
ington correspondent of (the Boston 
Herald at the age of eighteen. 

Mr. Macfarland has given much 


elected Presidential Elector from his 
state and in July, 1905, he was ap- 
pointed Secretary of the Navy, and in 
this position his wide experience and 
trained judgment have made his in- 
fluence in the cabinet widely felt. Mr. 
Bonaparte has a beautiful country 
home near Baltimore, and is devoted 
to outdoor life. He is in the prime of 
mental and physical vigor. 

attention to the general interests of 
the District of Columbia. The im- 
provement of the District in all its 
phases, and the arrangement of the 
District finances upon a business-like 
basis, have been the two special ob- 
jects of his efforts before Congress as 
President of the Board of Commis- 
sioners. The filtration plant, sewage- 
disposal system, the railway terminal 

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legislation, including the abolition of 
grade crossings, District Government 
building, and all other extraordinary 
projects of improvement, have divided 
his chief attention with plans for prop- 
erly financing the District's obliga- 
tions under them, so as to distribute 
the burden, instead of having it fall 
entirely upon the present time by be- 
ing met out of current revenues, with 
the inevitable result of reducing cur- 

He has also taken a special interest 
in promoting social legislation, prepar- 
ing most of the bills on the various 
subjects, such as child labor. Social 
questions have much interested Mr. 
Macfarland, and he has been active 
in the efforts for the improving of 
housing conditions, the prevention of 
tuberculosis, the establishment of play- 
grounds and summer outing camps, 
the outdoor relief of the poor, and haf 


rent appropriations. He has also giv- 
en hearty cooperation and support to 
the Senate Park Commission project 
for the development of the park sys- 
tem of the District of Columbia and 
the beautification of Washington, 
which was the direct outgrowth of the 
National Centennial Celebration, and 
includes the proposed Memorial 
Bridge across the Potomac to Arling- 
ton, which Mr. Macfarland has stead- 
ily advocated. 

been instrumental in promoting pro- 
posed measures for a juvenile court, 
regulation of child labor, abatement of 
nuisances, improvement of the Ana- 
costia river flats, condemnation of in- 
sanitary buildings and compulsory 

He is very much interested in the 
work of the Christian Endeavor move- 
ments and has done much for the ad- 
vancement of the project of raising 
a two million dollar memorial building 

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in memory of Dr. Francis E. Clark, 
the founder of the movement. 

Appointed by President McKinley 
as Commissioner of the District of 
Columbia, Mr. Macfarland was elected 
President of the Board of Commis- 
sioners of the District of Columbia 
May 9, 1900 ; he still retains this posi- 
tion, holding it now for the third 

He was Chairman of the National 
Capital Centennial Committee in 1900, 
and delivered the Centennial address 
at the White House December 12, 
1900; he also delivered District of 
Columbia Day address at the Pan- 
American Exposition, September 3, 
1901, as well as a similar address on 
District of Columbia Day at the Louisi- 
ana Purchase Exposition, October 19. 
1904. He is president of William Mc- 
Kinley National Memorial Arch As- 
sociation, of Rock Creek Park Board 
of Control, and of Washington Pub- 
lic Library Commission, and Chair- 
man National Committee on the Pro- 
posed Change of Inauguration Day. 

In October, 1888, Mr. Macfarland 
married Miss Mary Lyon Douglass, 
daughter of Hon. Jno. W. Douglass, 
sometime Commissioner of the . Dis- 
trict of Columbia. 

Chief Justice Weakley was born in 
Somerville, Morgan County, Alabama, 
but his boyhood days were spent 
in Florence, where his parents re- 
sided. At the age of eighteen 
he graduated from the State Normal 
College and for a short time there- 
after taught in the public schools of 
the state. He never attended a law 
school, but prosecuted his studies in 
the office of Judge R. T. Simpson, 
who is now an associate justice- of the 
supreme court. Judge Weakley was 
admitted to the bar before reaching 
the age of twenty-one years, and soon 
after located in Memphis, in order to 
be near his uncle, Colonel Josiah Pat- 

He was appointed assistant attor- 
ney general for Shelby county, but, 
attracted by the wonderful growth 
and development of the Birmingham 

district he concluded to remove to 

Prior to his appointment as chief 
justice, Mr. Weakley never sought or 
held office in Alabama. He has al- 
ways taken a great interest in matters 
pertaining to his profession. He is an 
active member of the Alabama Bar 
Association, and at one time acted as 
chairman of a special committee of the 
professional and business men to urge 
a call for a constitutional convention, 
and his labors in that direction had 
much to do with bringing about the 
holding of a constitutional convention 
in Alabama. 

The new chief justice is recognized 
throughout the state as a lawyer of 
great ability. Being a man of indus- 
trious habits he is capable, of doing a 
great work for the state in the position 
to which he has been appointed. Judge 
Weakley is an accurate, profound, and 
rapid thinker. His style in speaking 
and writing is lucid and strong. 

Not only is Judge Weakley an able 
lawyer, but he is a man of marked 
personal characteristics. He does not 
use tobacco or intoxicants in any form. 
He is an official in the Presbyterian 
church of Birmingham and teaches a 
class of young men in the Sunday 

Judge Weakley never attended any 
other school than the Normal College 
at Florence, Ala., his home town, yet 
since that time he has prosecuted his 
studies with the same degree of ear- 
nestness which he has shown in the 
practice of his profession. Besides 
possessing a knowledge of Latin and 
Greek, he reads, writes, and speaks 
fluently, both the French and German 
languages. His wife was Miss Ellen 
Anglin, of Birmingham, and their 
home on the South Highlands is one 
of the most beautiful in the city. 

The present head of the Georgia 
Institute of Technology was born in 
Cheraw, S. C, where his ancestors had 
settled on royal grants in the early 
colonial days. He was educated at a 
military school and for some years af- 
ter his graduation devoted himself to 

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the military training of boys at the School of Technology, and has re- 
Georgia Military Academy. This mained there since, having been ap- 
same work taking him to the Univer- pointed Chairman of the Faculty and 
sity of Tennessee, he also took up Acting President in 1905, on the death 

President Georgia School of Technology 

classes in the department of English 
and combined the two branches in 
subsequent work at the Missouri Mili- 
tary Academy. In 1897, he was elect- 
ed Professor of English at the Georgia 

of Dr. Lyman Hall. Mr. Matheson 
holds the degree of Master of Arts 
from Leland Stanford, Jr., University, 
and that of Doctor of Philosophy 
from Columbia University, New York. 

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By jjluth Nelson Gordon 

ONE of the most historic build- 
ings in the city of Richmond 
is the old State Capitol, 
which has played an import- 
ant part in the annals of the State of 
Virginia, and therefore in those of the 
United States, for generations. The 
Capitol is set in the heart of a park, 
thickly shaded by fine trees, and 
adorned by magnificent statues. The 
building stands on the crest of a high 
hill, and the Capitol Square, as it is 
called, slopes, in a succession of vel- 
vety terraces, to the streets that bound 
it to the south. The approach from 
Grace street is flat, and one may drive 
on a level straight to the Governor's 
House, not far behind the Capitol, only 
turning a shade out of his way to skirt 
the great Washington Monument, by 
Crawford. The Capitol Square is 
famed for its beautiful trees, which 
keep its broad, winding walks cool 
through the hottest days, and reflect 
their waving branches in the basins oi 
the fountains. Here the grass keeps 
green far into the winter, and a multi- 
tude of grey squirrels delight in the 
mossy turf, coming without timidity 
to eat at the hands of the children who 
throng the square at all seasons. The 
other parks in Richmond have been 
filled with squirrels from the Capitol 
Square, and it is a common thing to 
see them bounding along the streets 
or running up the trunk of a tree at 
the approach of an enemy. 

Thomas Jefferson advised the plans 
of the Capitol, selecting as a model 
the Maison Quarree, an ancient Roman 
ruin in the city of Nismes, France. 
Drawings and complete measurements 
were obtained, the only changes made 
being the substitution of Ionic for Cor- 
inthian columns. 

The model sent by Jefferson is now 
in the State Library, and is still in ex- 
cellent condition. His admiration for 
it never waned, for he writes at a later 
date, "Here I am, gazing at the Mai- 
son Quarrie, like a lover at his mis- 

The corner stone for the Capitol 
was laid August 18th, 1786, and the 
building went steadily on toward com- 
pletion. The first legislature convened 
in it in 1789, before it w<as finished. 
Perhaps the loyal members wished to 
christen it on the anniversary of the 
surrender of Cornwallis at Yorktown, 
which occurred exactly eight years be- 
fore. Or it may be they wished to 
commemorate the surrender of Bur- 
goyne to Gates (the latter being a citi- 
zen of Virginia), at Saratoga, on the 
1 8th of October, 1779. 

The cost of the building was twen- 
ty-five thousand, seven hundred and 
sixty-one pounds, and we read that 
rnuch more was afterwards spent on 
it. One of these sums was "four thou- 
sand pounds for a pediment roof to 
he covered with lead." 

Mr. Samuel Mordecai whose de- 
lightful reminiscences of Richmond in 
by-gone days are now useful history, 
gives a most discouraging account of 
the building as he remembered it. 
"The Capitol itself," he writes, "not 
then stuccoed, exposed its bare brick . 
walls between the columns and the pi- 
lasters. The roof was once, if I mis- 
take not, flat and naved with tiles, and 
like Noah's Ark, 'was pitched without 
with pitch.' But as the hot sun caused 
the pitch to flow down the gutters, 
and the rains to enter the halls, an 
elevated roof was substituted." Mr. 
Mordecai goes on to say of the Square : 
'The Capitol Square was originally 

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as rugged a piece of ground as many 
of our hillsides in the country ex- 
hibit after a ruinous course of culti- 
vation. Deep ravines furrowed it on 
either side, and May and Jamestown 
weeds decorated it and perfumed it in 
undisguised luxuriance. On each side 
of the Capitol was a long horse-rack, 
for the convenience of the public. In 
front of the portico stood an unpainted 

tique treasure under its wide roof. 
One comes out of the world of sun- 
shine into the dim, cool basement, 
•where the Register of the Land Office, 
and other officials, hold sway. On the 
second floor the Senate Chamber and 
the Hall of the House of Delegates 
face each other across a wide rotunda. 
In the center of this stands Houdon's 
great statue of Washington. A little 


wooden belfry, somewhat resembling 
the dairies we see at good farmhouses. 
The portico might then be reached by 
a narrow, winding staircase, now 
closed, which gave to the goats and 
kids, who sported in numbers about 
the grounds, a convenient access to 
the portico, where they found shelter 
in wet weather." 

No building is more hallowed by the 
breath of the past than the Capitol, 
which guards jealously many an an- 

incident is told concerning the making 
of this statue. Houdon was Washing- 
ton's guest in order to gain inspiration 
for his work. The Father of his Coun- 
try, who did not believe in lingering 
over anything, grew a little impatient 
over the slowness of his guest in be- 
ginning. Houdin, however, was wait- 
ing for a characteristic pose. One day 
some horses were brought to Wash- 
ington, arid on his asking the price, 
the answer was "a thousand dollars." 

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Washington was incensed at this ex- 
orbitant price and drew himself up in 
majestic indignation. Houdon ex- 
claimed with delight, "I 'ave eet. I 
'ave eet," and started at once to work. 
The splendid result has added greatly 
to his fame. The bust of Lafayette 
is also his work. Another fine work of 
art in this hall is the bust of J. E. B. 
Stuart, by Valentine. A very large 
painting hangs on the wall of the Sen- 
ate Chamber. It represents the storm- 
ing of the redoubts at Yorktown, 
painted by a French artist, Lanie. It 
was presented to the State by W. W. 
Corcoran, of Washington, Other fine 
old paintings hang in the Hall of the 
House of Delegates. 

The fourth and last floor holds the 
Governor's offices, the offices of the 
Secretary of the Commonwealth and 
several others, and at one time held 
the old State library. Around the gal- 
lery on which they all opened hung a 
rare oollection of oil paintings, some 
of them very old. All the governors 
of Virginia were represented there, 
and Virginia's great men looked down 
proudly in the rich dress of past times. 
The portraits have all been removed to 
the new State library building, and 
two priceless antiquities, the old stove 
and chair used in the House of Bur- 
gesses, await the jompletion of the eir- 
larged Capitol for replacement. Mor- 
decai says of these curios : "Two arti- 
cles of furniture of the colonial times 
are extant in the Capitol, namely : the 
Speaker's chair of the House of Bur- 
gesses, originally decorated with the 
Royal Arms. This was removed from 
Williamsburg, and is now, though 
shorn of its regal emblems, occupied 
by the Speaker of the House of Dele- 
gates. The tall stove that warmed 
those colonial and independent halls, 
in succession, for about sixty years, 
and for the last twenty-five has served 
to warm the central hall, in which 
stands Houdon's statue of Washing- 
ton is a work of note. This stove bears 
also the British Arms and other em- 
bellishments in relief, and they re- 
main perfect, being as indestructible 
as the structure they decorate, for the 
stove is truly a structure of three stor- 

ies. The founder of it, Buzaglo, was 
proud of his work, and when it was 
shipped from London he thus writes 
to Lord Botetourt, under date of Au- 
gust 15, 1770: 'The elegance of work- 
manship does honor to Great Britain. 
It excels in grandeur anything ever 
seen of its kind, and is a masterpiece 
not to be equalled in all Europe. It 
has met with general applause and 
could not be sufficiently admired.' " 

Mordecai says further that this stove 
has survived three British monarchs, 
and has been contemporaneous with 
three kingly monarchies, two republics 
and two imperial governments in 
France, but of only one constellation 
of republics in the United States, "I 
hope and trust 'One and indivisible, 
could not be sufficiently admired.' " 

A step to the left from the gallery, 
and one entered in bygone years the 
most fascinating place in the Capitol, 
the old State library. This library is 
now only a memory, its treasures hav- 
ing been removed to a new building, 
but there are many who remember it 
with a feeling of poignant loss. The 
quaint, high-pitched room, with its 
subtle aroma of past time, has re- 
turned to that past of which it breathed 
so vividly. The library was a haven 
for many a booklover. A long room, 
narrowed by deep bookcases which 
lined it up to the ceiling, was lighted 
by wide windows set far back between 
the cases; comfortable chairs sat in- 
vitingly by long tables piled with 
books, and the deep leather cushioned 
window seats sent forth an alluring 
welcome. The closing of the outside 
door shut out the restless modern 
world, and brought the visitor into a 
land of golden silence, a place of 
dreamy caltn. Nothing glaringly new 
offended the eye. All its objects were 
mellowed into dignified sobriety by 
age. The room, though dusky in cor- 
ners, into which the sunshine that 
streamed through its deep embrasured 
windows never penetrated, was for 
the most part bright. At one end a 
large window let in a flood of light. 
Here behind an ancient baize table, 
sat the librarian, absolute monarch 
over his silent subjects. At each end 

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of the room were great fireplaces, 
yawning black in summer and blazing 
in winter. Beside the fireplace in the 
south end of the room, stood a case 
of grimy and tattered Confederate 
flags, shattered remnants of a gallant 

The treasures of the library were not 
formally placed in accurate precision, 
but lay scattered here and there in 
dusty cases, or in ancient frames 
against the wall. Here, a copy of 

the door a painting of a sad-eyed sol- 
dier in grey with bowed head and 
folded arms, told the story of Appo- 

From the seat in one of the east 
windows one could look far over the 
grim buildings of the lower part of the 
city to the James, with its busy ves- 
sels, its amber water flashing silver 
in the sun. Below in the Square on 
a May day, the trees swayed in the 
wind like a sea of living green, and 


Magna Charta caught the eye, splen- 
did with its red seals and with coat of 
arms of each knight attached. Now 
an autograph letter of a famous gen- 
eral, or a quaint picture of the first 
steam engine ever invented. There 
was one corner hung with fantastic 
silhouettes, among which John Ran- 
dolph, of Roanoke, with grim set chin, 
is conspicuous. It seems hardly possi- 
ble to believe that this crabbed old 
face is the same beautiful boyish one 
which hangs in the Virginia Histor- 
ical Society. A battered canteen and 
a ragged knapsack — tired echoes of 
a bitter war — lay side by side, and over 

the exquisite scent of spring stole 
through the open windows. 

Many a stirring convention has been 
held within the walls of the old Capi- 
tol. Here were debated and adopted 
the resolutions of 1798-99 drafted by 
James Madison. Here also sat the 
Convention of 1829-30, of which Madi- 
son, Monroe, Marshall, and John Ran- 
dolph of Roanoke were members. 
The lists of its membership made the 
yirginian roll of Battle Abbey. The 
Convention of 185 1, that restored Uni- 
versal Suffrage, and that of 1861, sat 
therein. To the old Capitol in 1862 
came from Montgomery, Alabama, 

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the Congress of the Confederate 
States of America. This Congress 
sat until April, 1865, not sine die, yet 
never to meet again. Here in 1867 

The attic of the old Capitol was al- 
ways a place of fascination. One 
passed through it to gain the roof, 
from which could be seen a magnifi- 


sat the convention known as the Un- 
derwood Convention, and in 1902 sat 
the Constitutional Convention, which 
framed a new Constitution for the 
State, superseding the Underwood 

cent view. A narrow, steep stairway 
led from the floor to the slanting 
roofed garret. Old pamphlets lay in 
dusty heaps, grey with age, piled in 
hopeless confusion. It was always 
twilight here, for the light came 

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through grimy, inadequate windows, 
making the corners vague and shad- 
owy. One could well imagine that the 
ghosts of those who failed (in their 
time) on the floors below might walk 
here, still harboring their impotent 
fury. It was always with a feeling of 
relief that one gained the roof and 
breathed long draughts of pure air. 
From here the city stretched in beauty 
as far as the eye could reach toward 
the west. Eastward the shining river 
wound away into pleasant stretches 
of green country. 
There are many famous statues in 

new building, enclosing almost every 
portion of the old, but presenting an 
appearance entirely modern. The old 
building was sadly worn and for the 
most part dilapidated. New halls were 
needed for the Legislature, and new 
offices for the officials of the State. 
The historic walls were left standing 
and are now a part of the new build- 
ing. Iron, stone, and marble have 
taken the place of wood and brick. 
Rattling doors, loose flags and hollow 
sounding spaces are now a thing of 
the past. The ancient elevator is 
gone, with its caretaker, and a plung- 


the Capitol Square. Crawford's statue 
of Washington towers high above them 
all. At its base are grouped heroic 
statues of Marshall, Nelson, Henry, 
Jefferson, Mason and Lewis. The 
statue of Stonewall Jackson was 
erected by Englishmen, who admired 
him greatly. Other statues in the 
Square are those of Henry Clay and 
Dr. Hunter McGuire, a famous sur- 
geon who died but a few years ago. 
The State Library building stands 
back of the Capitol building, within 
the confines of the Square. 

The old Capitol has now been re- 
modelled. Upon the site has risen a 

er of the latest type has taken its 
place. The woodwork is now wal- 
nut and mahogany, and automatic 
heating and lighting devices will be 
used. The outside, with its coat of 
stucco, gives the building a new ap- 
pearance* The portico where Daniel 
Webster once paid his famous tribute 
to the Virginia October skies is still 
intact, with a wide flight of steps lead- 
ing to the ground. On either side 
are wings connected by large vesti- 
bules with the main building, doubling 
the length of the old Capitol. The 
rotunda is unchanged, and in it will 
stand again, as in the old days, 

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Houdon's statue, which Lakyette de- The basement of the building will 

clared to be a facsimile of Washing- contain the offices of the Register of 

ton. The dome will be as before, Lands, the Clerks of the House and 

though new, and the roof railing and the Senate, the Committee Clerks, the 

trap door, used by so many, have been Enrolling Clerks and some other of- 

restored in modern condition. fices. The State Legislature will be 

The new Senate chamber is in the housed upon the first floor. The old 

western wing. The lower floor is Senate chamber at the south end has 

semicircular in form. Galleries seating been converted into a large committee 

about two hundred and fifty people room. Across the way the House 

run around the room. The floor space chamber will be as it was before in 

under the galleries is divided into small size and shape, but it will be used 

committee rooms. The House cham- now for a museum, in which Con- 

ber is in the east end and rectangular Hhrate relics and records will be dis- 

in shape. played. 


I am from the tent of the Nomad, 
I fed from a Bedouin breast, 

While the sand-storms beat 

With their burning feet • 
At the door of my infant rest. 

I have sped with the horses of Antar, 
As swift as the winds of the morn, 

And my blood leaped high 

To the battle cry 
From the throats of our freemen born. 

O'er the dunes in the glare of the desert, 
Wild the days of my youth were run, 

And I shook my spear 

In the thirst-mad air — 
In the face of the rising sun ! 


In the gardens of Tus I have wandered, 

Where rose petals sifted as snow, 
Where the sweetness of nature was squandered,. 

And nightingales' songs overflow. 

In the depths of dark eyes I have fashioned 

Soft fabricks for dreams of delights, 
Of blisses more wild and impassioned 

Than born of Olympian nights. 

I have caught all the lights and the shadows 

That passion and love can impart, 
And the breath of the flow'rs and the adders 

Is mingled, and sleeps in my heart ! 

Viola Inez. 

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By Lillian Kendrick Byrn 

r I ^ O the French nation belongs 
J I [ the honor of discovering the 
A. process of depicting objects 
in a permanent way by the 
agency of light. Louis Jacques Mande 
Daguerre was a scene painter, who was 
constantly inventing new and start- 
ling effects in his work, attaining a 
reputation which spread all over Eu- 
rope. In 1829 he was attracted by 
experiments that had been made look- 
ing towards the fixing of impressions 
by the chemical action of light and for 
ten years he worked with a compatriot, 
Niepce, who, however, died just as 
they were beginning to see success 
ahead. In 1839 Daguerre gave an ex- 
hibition of his work and his process 
before the National Academy of Sci- 
ences, then in session in Paris. The 
announcement of his achievements 
threw the whole scientific world into 
a state of excitement and created pro- 
found interest everywhere. To the 
minds of the many it was plainly an 
impossibility to transfer scenes to an 
enduring surface in a short time, with- 
out the accustomed laborious applica- 
tion of pencil and brush, not to men- 
tion the usual study and training. Sci- 
entists everywhere began to follow 
Daguerre's process and, like Colum- 
bus, his achievements were soon 
eclipsed by those who profited by his 
discoveries. He used a silver-plated 
copper tablet, burnished to a mirror- 
like smoothness. He was convinced 
that the scope of his invention was lim- 
ited to scenes and interior views, and 
it was an American, Dr. J. W. Draper, 
of the University of New York, who 
first succeeded in applying it to por- 
trait work. The human race, prone al- 
ways to vanity, rushed eagerly for- 
ward to perpetuate itself in silvery 
elusive portraits and when we reflect 

that it required from twenty to twen- 
ty-five minutes for a sitting we must 
marvel at the accuracy of the likeness- 
es. In the sixty-five years that have 
elapsed since Dr. Draper commenced 
taking portraits, photography has 
made wonderful strides. The carbon 
or platinum print of to-day — techni- 
cally and artistically well-nigh perfect 
— is a far cry from the first efforts. 
To-day the photographer studies the 
massing of light and shade, the ar- 

Photo by Wm. S. Rice, Stockton, Cat, 


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Photo by Rudolf Eickemeyer, Jr., New Fc -* 

iFrom Down South." Permission of Harper & Broi. Copyright, 1901) 

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Pko/o by Rudolf Eickemiyer, Jr , New York 

(Prom "Down South." Permission of Harper & Brca Copyright, 1901) 

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Photo by W. S. Lively, McMinnviUe, T*nn. 

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rangement of line and curve, the ele- 
ments of composition and harmony of 
tone with the same care that painters 
do. In fact, photography calls for al- 
most as much creative imagination as 
painting. The camera artist must first 
conceive' the effect he wishes to obtain 
and by technical knowledge bring his 
abstract design into organic form. 
The work of the modern photographer 
who has ideas and is master of the 
technic of his craft rivals that of the 
old-time painter, and this is true not 
only in portrait work but in landscape 
as well. To wait patiently for days 
at the same hour to catch a certain ef- 
fect, to pose and re-pose a model with 
suitable accessories in order to repro- 
duce a certain characteristic expres- 
sion — this demands perseverance, 
with knowledge, judgment and chance 
as aids. The most commonplace 
scene may make a beautiful picture un- 
der certain conditions. 

Art limits are not fixed by any lines 
of latitude. Rudolf Eickemeyer, Jr., 
of New York, finds the Southern ne- 
gro a most satisfactory type. Henry 
Ravell, after years of work in Minne- 
sota, now confines himself exclusively 
to Mexican studies. William S. Rice, 
of Stockton, California, makes a spe- 
cialty of character work, his models 
being typical of the crowded ghettos 
of the city. W. S. Lively, of McMinn- 
ville, Tennessee has made a lifelong 
study of the mountaineers around him. 
The characteristic portrait seen in the 
frontispiece is a superb piece of work, 
the light and shadow effect bringing 
out to the full the honesty and shrewd 
kindliness of the old man's face. This 
photograph has taken two gold medals 
at photographic exhibitions. Theodore 
Eitel's beech trees are studies from 
his home surroundings in Kentucky. 
A number of other Kentucky artists 
have made special studies of these no- 
ble trees. 

In photography, as in art, every na- 
tionality has its distinctive features, 
those in the American art and photog- 
raphy being less marked than in any 
others. The French, English, or Ger- 
man photographer each seeks to catch 
in his subjects the subtile distinctions 

which are characteristic solely of his 
own nationality — the American is too 
apt to allow his facility for imitation 
to seize upon general artistic effects 
and thus his work is not differentiated 
from that of others. French photog- 
raphy exhibits the same impression- 
istic quality as French painting and 
literature do. The Germans are mas- 
ters of simplicity in landscape and por- 
trait composition, by t their work shows 
plainly that overweening admiration 
for massiveness which is. a national 

Photo by Wm. S. Rice, Stockton, Cal. 

weakness. The keynote of English 
work is the dignified, the placid. Ca- 
thedrals, meadows, thatched cottages 
and smocked rustics are the prevailing 
types. Each of these countries has its 
national school of photography. We, 
too, should preserve and encourage the 
reproduction of national life and char- 
acter. Many of our states have Pho- 
tographers' Associations, and some of 
them, as Kentucky and Tennessee As- 
sociation, and the Tri-State Associa- 
tion, band together in their earnest ef- 
forts to advance their craft to the rank 

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Photo by H Ravell, Mexico City, Mexico 


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Photo by W von Olooden Taormina 


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Photo by Theodore Eiul, Louxevxlte, Ky. 


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of a fine art. Hidden away in the 
mountains of Tennessee, the Southern 
School of Photography has for ten 
years worked earnestly to teach, not 
alone the craftsmanship, the commer- 
cial knowledge, and the economy of 

and separate from that of others. As 
an aid to the more exalted fine arts the 
value of photography cannot be over- 
estimated. Every day is increasing 
the number of its applications to ar- 
tistic purposes. On the art of paint- 

PKoto by Richard Setter, Schiceidnitz 


the business but to instill as well the 
appreciation of its true artistic value. 
Perhaps one of the strongest argu- 
ments for the claims of photography 
to be one of the fine arts lies in the fact 
that, like all arts, its progress has been 
evolutionary. It has created various 
schools which have been superseded 
by better ones and it has created indi- 
vidual workers whose style is distinct 

ing, the unlimited supply of photo- 
graphic studies, combining relative 
space values with nature's own mi- 
nuteness of detail, has been of incalcu- 
lable benefit, while, should the future 
progress of photography keep pace 
with its past achievements many of 
the laborious and expensive processes 
now in use will soon be entirely super- 

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By Felix Fontaine 

E early fall of 1903 
[>und me, thanks to 
series of misfor- 
jnes and a persist- 
nt run of hard luck, 
egetating, in a semi- 
corched and melan- 
holy way, upon the 
leached and blister- 
\g surface of a flat 
* o c k ; surrounded, 
fringed and hedged about by a fancy- 
inspiring wilderness of stunted cedars. 
This particular Edenic spot lay, and 
was definitely situated, in the geo- 
graphically central county of the 
State of Tennessee, and had for its 
existence apparently no other rational 
excuse than that of filling a hole in 
the ground. 

I reckon the Chief Architect knew 
what He was doing when He made 
the earth, but I have seen some places 
— this one in particular — that caused 
me to suspect that some sub-contrac- 
tor must have run short of material 
and either jumped or lain down on 
his job. But whatever the primal 
cause for this geological hiatus, 1 
could see, even with my untrained 
eye, 'that the work was not half fin- 

Yet I did not make this discovery, 
or fully realize the state of things, 
until I had been skinned in a tradt 
and the raw places began to rub 
against the hard, hot surface. I am, 
it sometimes dawns upon me, a queer 
structure, physically, mentally and 
temperamentally. My brain seems to 
be a piece of mechanism that keeps 
slow time. I never could realize that 
an opportunity had presented itself 
until I saw the dust it had stirred up 
in the haste of departure. I always 

got left — always but once. But of 
that, later. 

I settled down upon my purchase 
and resolved to try my hand at pitch- 
ing crops. In order to learn how such 
results were achieved, I consulted 
my neighbors, who seemed to enjoy 
a degree of prosperity. Also, I wrote 
to the officials at the nearest Experi- 
ment Station for information upon the 
subject of geoponics; and when I had 
done reading dazzling accounts of al- 
most fabulous results I felt that I 
should be able, in a short time, to 
write the word EUREKA in capital 
letters upon the lintel of my front 

In my enthusiasm I remembered 
how sleek, well-groomed politicians 
had in glowing terms denominated the 
farmer the bone and sinew — the back- 
bone — of the earth. And I have since 
learned by observation and experience 
that this statement is literally true. 
But that is about all — the other fellow 
is the belly. 

However, I am neither politician 
nor philosopher — just a plain farmer. 
So I went to work on the strength of 
prospects. I pictured in fancy circu- 
lar pyramids of fodder, mows bulging 
with hay, and cribs creaking and 
groaning under the weight of corn. 
My granary should be stuffed with 
wheat, oats and barley; my bins — I 
could not have cellars on account of 
the flat rock — should fairly grin with 
potatoes ; and my cedar glades bubble 
and flow with milk and honey. 

Alas! To all things fanciful there 
is apt to come a time of disillusion- 
ment. Drought caught my corn, 
twisting the blades into ropes; the 
Hessian fly ravaged my wheat field; 
while the California beetle mowed the 

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tops off my crop of tubers. And as 
for the milk and honey, why, they just 
wouldn't flow. 

One day, while sitting in the shade, 
hunting for "chiggers" and seed-ticks, 
and with my mind thoroughly imbued 
with the wisdom of the man who ad- 
vised farmers who could neither sell 
their farms nor conscientiously give 
them away to move off and leave 
them, I picked up our ten by eight 
county newspaper. After lazily scan- 
ning its columns of putative reading 
matter my eyes alighted upon an allur- 
ing advertisement : 




Five hundred thousand acres of alluvial 
land in southern Arkansas, at less than 
one-twelfth of its real value. 

This land is adapted to corn, cotton, 
grasses, fruits, and vegetables of all varie- 

I forthwith addressed Mr. C. Peter 
Pitkin, who, from the Bushrod Build- 

! ing, in our capital city, dispensed "full 
information relative to said lands," 
and in a few days received a somewhat 

I robust bundle of printed information. 
This budget furnished me with inter- 
esting and, as I thought, wholesome 
reading matter for several days. 
Glowing accounts of phenomenal re- 
turns from this wonderful river-bot- 
tom soil crowded the loose sheets, the 
pamphlets and the statistical reports; 
and when I had fully digested them 
I had got the fever. The malady was 
deep-seated and far-reaching. 

"Wife," said I, "I am going to 

"Where on earth are you going 
now? Move, indeed I We haven't 
done anything else but move since we 
were married. I'm sick and tired of 
moving. That's just the reason you 
have never done any good ! Job Jen- 

! kins, remember this — a rolling stone 
never gathers any moss !" 

"Maybe not, wife; but a stationary 
stone in this country never gathers 
anything except moss — and chiggers. 
I feel now as if I might be festooned 

with moss, and I know I am covered 
all over with chiggers." 

The day was won. Few women 
enjoy the prospect of moving — fewer 
enjoy the presence of chiggers. 

I showed wife the advertisement I 
had seen and read to her the most 
alluring descriptions in the budget of 
information concerning this Arkansas 
Paradise. And when I had concluded 
my harangue she said : "Well, if you 
must go, I reckon you must. But I 
want to tell you now, Job Jenkins, this 
is the last move I am going to make 
— or rather, the next to the last one. 
If I ever move again it will be when 
I am carried out feet foremost to the 

The details of moving are ever 
harassing to those directly involved 
and wholly unintei esting to those who 
are in nowise concerned; so I pass 
over that incident without comment. 

The farm I left in charge of a com- 
passionate friend, with instructions 
neither to sell nor to give away ; but if 
he could find some stranded, hopeless 
fellow who was willing to occupy the 
premises upon condition of paying the 
taxes and keeping up repairs, why, 
just to turn him in — open the gate 
and lead him in. 

The live-stock, farming implements 
and other impedimenta I succeeded in 
converting into cash at about one-third 
of their value. But for all that, I 
managed to scrape together enough 
money to get away ; and I went. 

My family consisted of seven mem- 
bers, including myself as a figure- 
head. There were four girls and one 

I always loved girls, they are so 
cheerful, helpful and ornamental. 
Boys are apt to be mulish, sometimes 
devilish ; and, just as soon as they are 
big enough to be of some account, in- 
variably want to trek in search of 
their own fortunes. My son, how- 
ever, was only fij^een, and had not as 
yet caught the^^/ig fever. 

So I bundled up a few household 
effects, tagged the kids and struck out 
for southern Arkansas. Upon reach- 
ing Memphis I concluded to take 
a steamer, just for the sake of vari- 

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ety ; and I had not been on board long 
until I saw that one who was really 
in quest of such commodities could 
find both variety and spice. 

The place I had selected was in the 
southeast corner of Arkansas, and was 
called Lost Hope. The name im- 
pressed me from the first. I had al- 
ways heard that hope was a very val- 
uable thing, and determined that if 
some fellow* had lost his here, why, I 
would just stop and try to find it. 
I would first inquire if there was a 
reward outstanding for its recovery; 
and if not, I would keep the property 
for its intrinsic worth. 

But before I began a systematic 
search for the lost, strayed or stolen as- 
set, I invested a small sum in a cheap 
home, to be used as a shelter on a 
rainy day, and as a base of operations 
upon which to fall back and rest when 
wiearied by the quest for hope. The 
place which I purchased was neces- 
sarily small and cheap, comprising 
only a few acres; and I afterwards 
learned that I got it at a low figure 
because it was subject to overflow. 
Whenever the floods came the dwel- 
lers had to take to the trees. 

The property had a few crooked, 
knotty trees on it, and a feeble, half- 
hearted spring that crawled out of a 
deserted looking mound near the 
house and emptied its aguish waters 
into a marsh some distance below. 

Realizing, just a little too late, that 
every drop of this ooze contained, ap- 
proximately, ten thousand chill germs, 
I resolved to get an old-fashioned well 
dug, and accordingly hired two hands 
to do the work. I knew they would 
not have to go very deep to find water, 
for water is quite abundant in that 
country ; it is quality that the element 
seems chiefly to lacfc. 

The two men worked very faith- 
fully for a week, and at the end of 
that time had reached a depth of six- 
teen feet. But Y&ev-I paid them off 
Saturday nigh rovi^. >rth got on a 
spree and never came back any more. 
So I determined that my son and I 
would take a turn and see if we could 
strike a stream. 

Accordingly, I sent the boy down 

with pick and shovel, while I took 
charge of the windlass. We had 
worked on in this way about an hour, 
when I heard him call excitedly from 
his post at the bottom of the hole : 

"Dad, draw me up quick — quick!" 

"What's the matter, son?" 

"There's somethin' dead down here. 
Pull me up!" 

Realizing from his tone that he was 
thoroughly alarmed, I hauled him out, , 
and when he reached the top his 
tongue was lolling, his eyes were bulg- 
ing and his face was as white as a 
clean sheet. As soon as he had re- 
covered his breath, I asked: 

"What frightened you, son?" 

"There's a skelington down there. 
I stuck the pick into an old rotten 
log and pulled out a man's skull." 

"Is that so? Then we must have 
struck an Indian burying ground, or 
something of that sort. But it would 
be a pity to lose all this work and the 
money it has cost. Maybe it's only an 
individual skeleton and we can dig 
that up and get it out of the way. I 
had better go down myself and exam- 
ine into the matter." 

"Well, sir, you can go down if you 
want to; but you will have to 'scuse 

Seeing that I would have to make 
the investigation in propria persona I 
got a lantern and a string long enough 
to lower it to the bottom of the well, 
preferring to have the scene lighted 
ahead of me. 

As the lantern went down and rest- 
ed upon the bottom its yellow rays 
flooded the excavation* and the sight 
revealed was decidedly weird. I then 
lowered the dirt-box and slid down 
on the rope. I was never much afraid 
of skeletons or dead folks in any 
shape; live ones have generally done 
me the greatest amount of harm. 

I picked up the grinning skull and 
placed it in the box; then took the 
pick and began to dig lightly into the 
soft decayed wood from which the 
ghastly object had come. By this 
means I soon uncovered the neck bone, 
shoulders, arms, ribs, vertebrae, and 
everything as far down as the hips; 
but as the leg bones and feet extended 

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back and under the wall of the well 
I was some time in digging these out 

This, however, was accomplished in 
the end, and I began to put the several 
disjointed members into the dirt-box. 
But as this box was too small to hold 
them all at one time it was necessary 
to make two draughts to get them up. 
I cautioned my son not to get scared 
and let the box, with its strange 
load, drop back on my head. 

In this way the entire skeleton was 
drawn up to the surface and dumped 
out on the ground ; and when that was 
done I climbed the rope to the top of 

At this juncture wife and the girls 
came out to take a shy peep at our 
extraordinary find. Some looked and 
turned away; but one little tot, more 
curious than the others, ventured up 
and began to push the bones about 
with her toes. In this way she discov- 
ered a strange-looking metal bracelet 
that had slipped off the left wrist of 
the skeleton. 

I thought at first that this bracelet 
might be of silver or gold, in which 
event it would compensate me for the 
trouble I had had in getting the bones 
out of the well. Upon examination, 
howjever, I found that it was neither 
the one nor the other, but of some 
baser material, such as copper. It was 
covered with thick, greenish mould, 
and gave evidence of great age. 

The child took this band to the 
house, while my son and I busied our- 
selves collecting the stained bones into 
a heap, intending to bury them, or 
wait until night and throw them into 
the river. I fid not know any speedier 
way to get them off our hands ; and 
besides, they don't stand upon cere- 
mony in that country, anyhow. 

While my son and I were standing 
there discussing the incident my eld- 
est daughter came back and remarked : 

"Pa, this bracelet has an inscription 
on it I can't exactly make it out ; but 
it seems to have been done in some 
foreign language." 

I took the band and saw that the 
children had washed, rubbed and 

scrubbed it until the outer surface 
shone brightly, and thus revealed an 
engraving of some kind. I was never 
anything to brag about as a scholar, 
but with the aid of my glasses I man- 
aged to decipher the following record : 

Fernando de Soto 


Del Isla de Cuba 

Anno Domini, 1537. 

I fully realized the extent of my 
good luck and was determined to make 
it yield richly. 

"Well! The bones of De Soto, as 
I am a living man! Pick them up, 
son, every dust of them, and we will 
put them in a glass case. That's a 
gusher, sure!" 

I had an ague right then and there, 
and my teeth clattered; but I helped 
to pick up those bones and put them 
into a cotton basket. 

I felt that my fortune was assured, 
and for once I took a firm grip upon 
the forelock of opportunity. 

Somehow the news got out, as such 
things generally do, and I was be- 
sieged with callers, — some prompted 
by curiosity, while others came in the 
capacity of agents for the Universal 
Exposition Trust, which is always in 
search of variety for its exhibits. 

The visits of these agents were 
marked by a vast amount of negotia- 

I was never an authority on history, 
but when the Trust agents suggested 
grave doubts as to the value of the 
bones, I merely studied the copper 
wristband; when they read Irving's 
account of the hollowed tree-trunk, 
with its revered inclosure, being sunk 
in the middle channel of the Father of 
Waters and speculated on the dis- 
tance of my well from the shores, I 
merely called to their attention the lat- 
er and well-known vagaries of the 
mighty stream. In the end I won my 
point, thanks to my perseverance, and 
you may have noticed, at the last Ex- 
position, a family group of seven, all 
well-dressed and all immensely inter- 
ested in the Historical Building. 

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By Thornwell Jacobs 




Ervin McArthur, son of "poor whites" 
in Dunvogan, North Carolina, nicknamed by 
his schoolmates " Satan " on account of his 
ungovernable temper, is the boyish sweet- 
heart of Helen Preston, daughter of an 
aristocratic family. As they grow up, 
Colonel Preston, disapproving of the in- 
timacy, attempts to break it off by securing 
for Ervin a position on the Charleston 
Chronicle. Colonel Masters, the editor of 
the Chronicle, is a native of Sudbury, Mas- 
sachusetts, who, coming to Charleston in 
his early youth, has become thoroughly 
identified with the place. He learns to like 
the clever mountain lad and advances him 
rapidly in a social and a business way. At 

a Christmas entertainment Ervin becomes 
acquainted with William T. Sherman and 
Braxton Bragg, two young lieutenants sta- 
tioned at Fort Moultrie. 

After the act of secession, McArthur 
devotes his time to the invention of iron- 
clad harbor defenses and in this work is 
ably assisted by Helen Brooks, daughter of 
a Boston merchant and a Charleston lady. 
He also, with Helen's help, rescues two 
guns from a sunken Federal vessel The 
accidental loosing of the pigeon which he 
had promised to send back to his Dunvegan 
sweetheart in proof of his faithfulness 
awakens him to the fact that he has out- 
grown his boyish love. 

CHAPTER XIII.— Continued 

"Oh, my Heavenly Father, I love 
him so! I pray for a letter, a sign!" 
the weary lips murmured. 

There was a rush of wings in the 
air, and a bird alighted on the pigeon- 
cote. Helen opened her eyes and 
strained them to see the bird preen- 
ing his feathers in the dusk. Was it 
— could it be— the homer Ervin took? 
Uncle Ben, sauntering up for a word 
with "Marse CunneU" heard her cry 
of joy and felt the breeze stirred by 
her garments as she rushed past him. 
Colonel Preston, too, heard the cry,and 
rising, limped painfully to the edge of 
the porch. Uncle Ben, taking him 
gently by the arm led him to his chair 
again, explaining: 

"One of dem pigeons, marster, what 
young missus thought de hawks had 
got, is sho' come home!" 

A little woman in white, long since 
ready for bed, stood by her window 

that night, nor would she cease strok- 
ing the head of a bird she loved. 

"Birdie dear," she said, "I know 
now why he did not write for so long. 
He has sent you, birdie, that I might 
know that he would never forget." 

Then a happy memory came to her, 
and she pursed her pretty lips, to 
which the roses seemed already re- 
turning, and looking coquettishly at 
her captive, murmured: 

"Dare you!" 


"The penny post was at the door." 
And all oblivious of the weighty 
message he bore, a mother and son 
were sipping the coffee of a late break- 
fast on Beacon street in staid old Bos- 
ton town. It was a handsomely ap- 
pointed dining room, all in mahogany, 
with sideboards built into the walls 
and rich paintings, massively framed, 
hanging upon them. Fair linen fig-- 


In tht April number 

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ured with lilies overspread the massive 
dining table, which for elegance, 
seemed a companion for the one far 
south at Camelia-on-the-Ashley. The 
polished floor was matted with thick, 
soft rugs. A waiting girl, whose light 
hair and blue eyes plainly denoted her 
Swedish origin, went swiftly and 
noiselessly between the breakfast room, 
with its two earnest disputants, and 
the kitchen, where an old negro mam- 
my was lumbering about the stove. 

"Mother," the young man's coffee 
was all gone but the mother had not 
tasted hers, "you do not understand 
it yet." 

"No, my boy," Mrs. Brooks replied, 
"I confess I do not understand why 
a constitution must be violated and a 
people destroyed in order that the Abo- 
litionists may have their own way." 
She glanced from her son to the foot 
of the table, where the master's chair, 
pushed back, showed that he had fin- 
ished his breakfast and gone. 

"It is not that, mother." The speak- 
er's voice was as gentle as were his 
blue eyes, and his hair lay in soft 
brown curls on his wide, smooth fore- 
head. It was his smile that won you, 
so frank it was and so like the happy 
gleam of his eyes. "It is not that, 
mother," he repeated. "We are work- 
ing against our own blood for the sake 
of an alien race, I grant you. But, as 
the Transcript says: 'It is a wicked 
and a causeless rebellion.' Note that, 
mother — causeless. No one was in- 
terfering with their institutions. Even 
if the government had begun negotia- 
tions later on, looking to the eman- 
cipation of their slaves, they would 
have been amply paid for them. Mr. 
Lincoln, himself, said in his inaugural 
address: 'I have no purpose, directly 
or indirectly, to interfere with the in- 
stitution of slavery in the States where 
it exists. I believe I have no right to 
do so.' Thus, causelessly, they would 
destroy the Union and start a move- 
ment which would split up their coun- 
try into a dozen antagonistic and war- 
ring States, and imperil the future of 
unborn millions, and set back consti- 
tutional government and republican 
forms a century or more. Now, what 

are we to do, we who love the 
Union, whether we despise slavery or 
not? Why, mother, I should be 
unworthy of my parents if I were not 
willing to give my life gladly that 
multitudes after me might have the 
blessings of peace and safety and lib- 

The oenny postman, tired of looking 
at the brown stone front, had rung 
the bell again, and Hilda heard this 
time. The conversation ceased as she 
entered the door. Giving her the 
penny for the postman, Henry Brooks 
tore open the letter, which was ad- 
dressed to him and bore the blazonry 
of the Executive Department of the 
State of Massachusetts. 

"Read it, mother dear," he said, 
when he had devoured it rapidly thrice 
over. She read it — in silence. 

Mr. Henry Brooks, 

Boston, Massachusetts. 

Dear Sir: As you have no doubt seen 
in the newspapers, I am about to raise a 
colored regiment in Massachusetts. This 
I cannot but regard as perhaps 'the most 
important corps to be organized during the 
whole war. I am desirous of having for its 
officers young men of firm anti-slavery 
principles, superior to vulgar contempt for 
color, and having faith in the capacity of 
colored men for service. Reviewing the 
young men of this character, it occurs to 
me to offer you a captaincy. In view of its 
importance and of the fact that it is the 
first colored regiment to be raised in the 
free states, it seems to me to be a high ob- 
ject of ambition to our officers. 

Your obedient servant and friend, 
John A. Andrews, Governor. 

"You will accept it," she said re- 

In replv he stepped lightly to her 
side and planted a kiss on her fore- 
head. "You old rebel," he said, in a 
tone of fond raillery, "you haven't 
touched your coffee. I must go to the 
office and consult father." He passed 
quickly into the hall, and his mother, 
leaving her untasted breakfast, sought 
her own room. 

Thus the fifty-fourth Massachu- 
setts was begun and Henry himself be- 
came a recruiting officer. Men there 
were, of course, who laughed at him 
on the streets and some boys at school 

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scoffed at his little brother, while a 
few Beacon street ladies turned a cold 
shoulder to the "mother of the negro 
captain." But one by one the negro 
men came to join the regiment. 

To encourage the recruiting, a great 
meeting was held in the Joy street 
church, and inspiring speeches were 
made. "You want to be line officers 
yourselves/' said Judge Russell, "and 
you have a right to be and some 
day you will be." Wendell Phil- 
lips, who but the other day had 
been driven by a mob from Tremont 
Temple, told them amid great ap- 
plause : "They offer you a musket and 
say, 'Come and help us.' Will you 
take hold ? I think you have as much 
right to the first commission in a bri- 
gade as a white man. No regiment 
should be without a mixture of the 
races. If the union lives, it will live 
with equal races." 

Then the drilling commenced at 
Readville Camp, and the men came in 
squads. Only now and then was there 
one who had ever known slavery. 
They were well-to-do men, too, 
some of them, and spoke of their fire- 
sides, their rights and their liberties. 

So, as in far away Dunvegan, the 
little queen of the Eseeolas, a flag 
presentation was planned. There were 
four of them — the Stars and Stripes ; 
the flag of the State of Massachusetts ; 
a silken emblem bearing the Goddess 
of Liberty; and — as though Annie 
were the heroine and Tait Preston the 
captain — a banner with a white cross 
upon a blue field bearing the words, In 
hoc signo vinces. From the parade, 
consisting of dark-eyed black boys 
and blue-eyed Saxon boys, both colors, 
according to the spirit of liberty, 
equality and fraternity, Governor An- 
drews stepped forth and, addressing 
the colonel in command, said: 

"Colonel Shaw, I know not where, 
in all human history to any given 
thousand men in arms there has been 
committed a work at once so proud, 
so precious, so full of hope and glory 
as the work committed to you; and 
may the infinite mercy of the Almighty 
God attend you every hour of every 
day through all the experiences of that 

dangerous life in which you have em- 
barked. May the God of our fathers 
cover your heads in the day of battle; 
may He shield you with the arms of 
everlasting power; may He hold you 
always in the highest and holiest con- 
ceptions of duty." 

At nine o'clock on the twenty-eighth 
day of May they reached Boston, 
where the transports lay in the harbor. 
They were met with cheers that seemed 
to belie the forebodings of the authori- 
ties, who were holding reserves of po- 
lice ready to quell any riot Gilmore's 
band preceded them, and a hundred 
policemen cleared the streets as they 
marched from Pleasant and Boylston 
to Somerset and Beacon, and at last 
gained the State House. Flags waved 
bravely along their march and patri- 
otic men spread the national colors 
everywhere. Sweet-faced girls of old 
St. Botolph's Town waved their lace 
handkerchiefs at the dusky soldiers. 
On Essex street they passed the house 
of Wendell Phillips, where stood Wil- 
liam Lloyd Garrison, as though it were 
all his own decreed triumph, with his 
hand resting upon a bust of John 
Brown. On Boston Common the emi- 
nent ones of the city reviewed the 
regiment and counted that this historic 
parade ground had been newly hon- 
ored. As they entered State street 
the stirring strains of John Brown's 
hymn brought to their mind the 
fact that the blood of Crispus At- 
tacks had sunk into the soil at their 
very feet, and one Thomas Sims, once 
slave, now hero, stood looking smil- 
ingly on, remembering how just there 
he had been apprehended and taken 
back to bondage. The streets along 
th : line of march were lined with the 
intellect and beauty of the equality- 
loving town and all Boston reached 
forth a welcoming and helping hand. 

At last they reached the good trans- 
port De Molay, and the steamer 
turned from the land of the great hills. 
Frederick Douglas bade his son, who 
had been one of the first to enlist, an 
affectionate farewell and the tugboat 
bore him shoreward. One by one the 
familiar shores sank below the verge 
and the dark sons of war turned their 

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eyes toward the land of the re- 

Weeks passed by before Mrs. 
Brooks heard a word from her son, 
and during those long days of waiting 
her heart scarcely knew whether to be 
bitter or sad, and ended by being both. 
She loved the South with all the ardor 
of one who would, but could not, live 
there ; and each added year away from 
the palmettos made her girlhood days 
at Camellia-on-the-Ashley the more 
beautiful— days when the rice fields 
were golden and the cotton covered the 
ground with snow — when as yet her 
destiny was not settled, and two gal- 
lant Massachusetts men who were 
often at the old plantation were only 
two of a numerous train of admirers. 
Day after day she sat by her window 
watching the sunset and thinking of 
the many things that end here. And 
once she had a letter from her boy, 
and her dry eyes thirsted for tears as 
a parched land for showers. 

"But no matter," she said with in- 
finite bitterness, "a half million sol- 
diers dead in the South — black crepe 
at every Southern fireside — what does 
it matter? They are only rebels!" 


On board the General Hunter the 
officers of the Fifty-fourth Massa- 
chusetts were seated at breakfast on 
the morning of the eighteenth of July, 
1863. Captain Simkfns was sipping 
his coffee, his strong, finely-chiseled 
features making his comrades think of 
the Greek gods, who used to come 
and war with men. Captain Russell 
was there, affable, voluble and active, 
though well-nigh worn out — and 
Henry Brooks, a very prince among 
them all, whose soul had bade him 
follow truth. There, too, was Colonel 
Shaw, his light hair falling almost 
down to his shoulders, a man afraid 
of nothing save a lie. 

"Gentlemen/* said he, turning his 
eyes upon the men assembled around 
the table, "I am ashamed to mention 
it, but for several days I have had a 
strange presentiment. I feel that I 
shall not be with you after to-night." 

"Tut, tut, colonel !" replied Captain 
Russell, "don't speak so. Our guns 
have almost ruined the little fort and 
success is only a matter of a few hours 
now. Hark to the 'Ironsides' ' guns." 

"Why, we have five thousand men," 
broke in Captain Brooks, "and oui 
black regiment will have the chance 
of their lives to distinguish themselves. 
Think of the glory and honor it means 
to them!" 

"I hope so, captain," replied Colonel 
Shaw. "As you said to me yester- 
day, nothing but the welfare of the 
union makes me willing to lead these 
men against their former masters. 
The world is watching us," he added, 
his spirits rising. "We will give the 
colored troops a chance to show what 
is in them." 

"Amen, colonel," said Captain 
Brooks. "I am no admirer of the 
Abolitionists, but I am an emancipa- 
tionist. I believe the South should 
free her own slaves. It is the cause- 
lessness of the rebellion that makes it 
culpable, and these black men will 
help us to bring home the lesson." 

"And I shall sleep in Wagner to- 
night," interrupted Captain Russell. 

"Ah, Russell," replied the colonel, 
his presentiment returning, "I fear 
you speak too truly. Perhaps more 
than you will sleep in Wagner to- 

All day long the great shells from 
the new "Ironside^' and the monitors 
had been ricochetting upon the waters 
and bursting over Fort Wagner. All 
day long the sharpshooters, armed 
with the new Whitworth rifles, whose 
telescopic sights made it possible to 
kill at fifteen hundred yards, had 
pressed their bruised faces against the 
gunstocks and drawn the bead of death 
with their black-ringed eyes. All day 
long in the darkened chambers of the 
casements the men in the fort had 
stood by the guns till the flesh was 
weary with labor and the eyes were 
sickened with blood. Not a man in 
the fort but knew that it was to be the 
fiercest charge of the war. The fo- 
cusing of land artillery and the naval 

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armament of eight great ironclads pre- 
saged the sure destruction of the little 
handful of men inside the besieged 
fort. For weeks it had been the same 
thing — the howling of the guns, the 
hideous screaming of the shells, the 
death-dealing whizz of the minie-balls. 
For weeks General Strong had been 
directing the great assault, eager to 
quiet the Abolition press in Massa- 
chusetts, which was insistent that Fort 
Wagner, in the very cradle of seces- 
sion, should be humbled. 

The evening before, Ervin Mc- 
Arthur, returning to Charleston from 
his experiments in the harbor, had 
heard that the little company from 
Dunvegan had passed through the city 
on their way to Morris* Island. The 
"Little Charleston" Regiment! How 
the name carried the heart of the young 
inventor back — a heart not yet too old 
to love his native village best — to beat 
twice as fast at the thought of Atta- 
coa. His brother Arthur was in the 
regiment, the stripling every one de- 
clared was so much like him. Ervin 
still dreamed of sweet Dunvegan, with 
its pretty girls in their ruffled white 
dresses, and its jolly comrades who 
loved the fish, the chase and the joke. 
Many times he determined to go back 
to Dunvegan to watch the sun set be- 
hind the Eseeolas, and dream in the 
purple shadows of the Silver Creek 
valley. There a mother was standing 
he knew, as many mothers were stand- 
ing now, looking out over the wheat 
fields and thinking each coo of the 
wood dove was the sound of cannon 
in the distance. 

Under cover of darkness he made 
his way past the gunboats and moni- 
tors and reached Fort Wagner. The 
first man he saw was Tait Preston. 
"You old hero, Taitr he exclaimed, 
"I have risked my life to see you and 
I would do it again !" 

A shell smote scarce twenty feet 
away in the midst of a squad of six 
men who had been ordered out on fa- 
tigue. Five fell dead ; the sixth picked 
up his sandbag and stepped coura- 
geously to the breach. Tait, who had 
just clasped his friend's hand in warm 
welcome, gripped it harder. 

"Second relief!" 

He gave the order in a steady voice, 
though the fallen men had been his 
playmates and McArthur's since early 
boyhood in the shadows of the Atta- 
coa. The dim candle light showed 
the horror in his face. "Do you know 
who they are?" he asked, as their com- 
rades started forward to their relief. 
"Judge Gray's boys — they always tried 
to be side by side. It will kill their 

Then McArthur knew he was in the 
midst of the Dunvegan lads, though he 
could not distinguish their faces in the 

"Where is Arthur, Tait?" 

"Thank God, he is safe in Rich- 
mond — wounded — in the hospital; he 
is doing nicely. It has been awrful, 
Ervin," continued the young captain, 
whose face was already lined with the 
soldier's furrows. "John Gray was 
killed at Antietam, also twelve others 
of our boys. We only got here last 
week and now five more are gone." 
The dead were carried into the bomb 
proof, where the surgeon examined 
them. From the gloomy corners the 
wounded rose in their cots to learn of 
the happening. Their grimy faces, 
eager and haggard, peered through 
the thick, hazy atmosphere. The chap- 
lain started "Jesus, lover of my soul," 
and the feeble voices chimed in, but 
none could pass "Cover my defense- 
less head," so they broke down there 
and prayed silently. A steady drip, 
drip, drip came through the sand 

"It is the salt water — it is a mys- 
tery," said Tait. 

On the memorable eighteenth of 
July a very fire of Hell rained on the 
devoted fort. 

The new "Ironsides" proud of be- 
ing the most formidable ship afloat, 
led her sister ironclads bravely up, as 
though they would destroy the land 
of the men whose invention they were. 
Gunboat and land batteries joined their 
forces. In eight hours, which seemed 
eight ages to both sides, nine thousand 
shells were hurled upon the little fort, 
and yet so perfectly had the genius of 
Lee and Cheves planned the earth- 

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works, only eight men were killed. As 
the darkness came on there fell a hush. 
From sea and land the batteries failed 
of cursing and a quiet reigned, whose 
profundity bespoke the intensity of the 
coming storm. After the last echo of 
the Federal cannon stole off into the 
distance Captain Preston and Ervin 
McArthur mounted the bastion and 
talked long of Dunvegan, their native 
town, where the sweetest girls in the 
Piedmont were dreaming of their sol- 
dier lads. In the exchange of confi- 
dences and news with his old chum, 
Ervin felt his feverish pulse subside 
and his brain return to its normal 
dear alertness. 

"Joe Allcrton was killed to-day, Er- 
vin. What will the doctor say?" 

'"Thy will be done I'" was the re- 

"Annie says it is to be on my first 
furlough, old boy," Tait continued, his 
eyes glistening at the vision of antici- 
pated joy. "I am going back to dear 
old Dunvegan for her some day, if 
God wiHs." 

A cannon suddenly roared defiance 
behind them. Instantly the fort, which 
had sunk to rest, became alive with 
action. Quick orders were given in 
hoarse voices. Captain Preston leaped 
down to his command. A long line of 
blue, hastening along the beach, 
showed that the enemy was upon 
them. "I will be with you to-night, 
Tait," whispered Ervin. "I am a pri- 
vate in the Dunvegan Dandies in Joe 
Allerton's place." 

The Fifty-fourth had disembarked 
and marched through the woods from 
Pawnee landing. The regiments that 
were encamped along the line of march 
greeted them as they passed in double 
quick with cries of "Well done, men !" 
and subdued hurrahs of welcome. 
"Your guns saved the Tenth Con- 
necticut," cried one man, and another 
called, "A thousand homes in New 
England will know the story, boys!" 
The black men walked straighter and 
their eyes glistened with pride. 

"We'll be men yet," said one to 
Fred Douglass' son. 

"We are men, now," was the confi- 
dent reply. , 

They marched six miles and halted 
to rest. Some one standing near the 
colors began the song, "When This 
Cruel War is Over," and voice after 
voice took up the refrain, singing 
softly and melodiously. General 
Strong rode up and addressed Colonel 
Shaw. "You may lead the charge to- 
night," he said, and he saw what he 
expected — a glad light in the colonel's 
face. "Your regiment," he continued, 
looking on the earnest black faces 
around him, "is in every respect the 
equal of the others. It is time the 
question whether or not the negroes 
can fight as well as the white men was 
decided. Yours is the best negro regi- 
ment in the service and we are to at- 
tack to-night the strongest single 
earthwork ever known in the history 
of warfare. The world will watch you 
to-night, and sociologists will prove 
their theories by to-night's fight for a 
century to come. You may have the 
honor of leading a charge that will 
make a part of the world's history. 
Will you take it?" 

For answer Colonel Shaw turned to 
his men. "Men," he said, "you have 
heard what General Strong says. You 
have had no food since morning and 
if you lead this charge to-night you 
will not have time now to eat. Will 
you lead it?" 

As the deep murmur of the ocean 
the reply rolled back: "Yes, sir, colo- 
nel, we will — we will !" The tired ex- 
pression had left their faces and eager 
enthusiasm and impatience showed in 
their gleaming eyes. 

General Strong addressed the men. 
"Boys," he said, "I, too, am a Massa- 
chusetts man. I am sorry you have to 
gro into the fight tired and hungry, but 
the men in the fort are tired and hun- 
gry, too. There are but three hundred 
behind those walls and they have been 
fighting all day. Remember, you are 
fighting for the honor of your race, a 
race whose future depends upon you ! 
And remember you are fighting for the 
honor of the grand old State of Massa- 
chusetts!" Pointing to the color- 
bearer he asked: "If this man falls 

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who will lift the flag and carry it on ?" 
Colonel Shaw's "I will," echoed by 
Henry Brooks, was drowned by the 
deep "I will," that roared as one vol- 
ume of sound from throats panting 
with eagerness for the fray. Every 
eye gleamed with ardor and every 
face was burnished with enthusiasm. 
The darkness had deepened — black 
hands were groping for one another 
in farewell — officers were buckling 
anew their sword belts. 

"Attention !" 

The regiment was on its feet in a 

Far out on the sea the fog was 
gathering. The distant thunder that 
had shaken the island at intervals all 
day sounded like a brother shouting 
to the heavy cannon. Far away 
towards the west and the blue hills 
the vapory clouds, pierced by the dy- 
ing sunlight, floated like feathery mass- 
es of gold dust. In silence the men 
marched forward. The bond of patri- 
otic desire drew officers and men close 
together in spirit, and all believed alike 
that the great moment of deliverance 
had arrived for the negro as a race. 

"Move in quick time," were the 
colonel's orders, "till within a hun- 
dred yards of the fort. Then double 
quick and charge. Don't fire on the 
way up, but bayonet them at their 
guns. We will take the fort or die 
there I Forward !" 

[To be 

They marched forward until the 
gunners in the fort saw the long line 
of blue-coats and the shot began to fall 
around the flags. The bearers knew 
at once that it was the colors that 
were the object of the fire, especially 
the white State colors. They began to 
roll them up, but Captain Brooks- saw 
this action and commanded them left 

" 'Spec the cap' fergits whut kind 
of balls them is," whispered a man 
who had been an old slave, to his 

"They know we're coming," an- 
swered the neighbor, a mulatto. 

Within five hundred yards of the 
fort the fearful tornado of iron burst 
upon them. Shell exploded in the 
ranks; shot mowed them down; can- 
ister, shrapnel and musket balls tore 
limb from limb and bone from liga- 
ment Like the mad current of an iron 
river the flames rolled down from Fort 
Wagner and drove them back, while 
the batteries on James' Island and 
from ever-watchful Sumter joined 
in the rain of death upon the advancing 
columns. They were literally shot to 
pieces, yet their white leader carried 
them on. Men with arms shot off 
crawled over mounds of slain to try 
with one arm to strike down their 
enemies. Some hobbled along on one 
leg and a bleeding stub that they might 
be among those to mount the ram- 

Digitized by 



By Robert Wilson Neal 

ONCE upon a time there was 
a youth who read much and 
was 'ware of many things. 
And he started upon a jour- 
ney to Somewhere. When he had 
traveled a space of time he came be- 
fore a chain of mountains, and look- 
ing up across the mountains, he saw 
a fair and pleasant land, and he longed 
for it "It is my future!" he ex- 
claimed, and rushed straightway for- 
ward, to pass through the mountains 
and possess it 

And he pressed up toward the 
mountains, to seek the pass where- 
through he had beheld the land. He 
toiled and climbed for many days, and 
yet he had not come into the moun- 
tains ; and when he was come up into 
the foothills, he toiled and climbed for 
many days, and yet came not into the 
mountain. And yet again, when he 
was come higher, there was no pass. 
So he toiled and climbed, and at last 
passed over the mountains. But when 
he beheld the land beyond, it was not 
fair and his heart longed not for it 
And he was a young man. 

But he went down into the land 
and began to pass through it; for he 
could not return across the mountains, 
but must go forward. Then as he 
went on, he looked up, and lol be- 
fore him was a strip of barren land 
that he liked not. But beyond the 
barren land were green fields, and 
fruitful, and those that walked therein 
men did honor. And he longed ta 
walk therein. He cried aloud, "It is 
my future!" And he rushed forward 
to cross the barren land and walk in 
the green fields. 

But the barren land was not nar- 
row, but very, very wide. There was 
sand there that clung upon his feet 
and wearied him. The sun was very 
hot, and it beat upon him till his 

strength was spent. The land was 
parched, and he was mightily athirst. 
In the morning, he would lift up his 
eyes to the green fields, and they were 
but a day's march distant; and in the 
evening he would stretch his gaze 
toward them, and they were far away. 
So he went on by day, and oftentimes 
by night. And he came at last to the 
fields, but they were not green, and 
those that walked therein, men did not 
honor. And he cared not to walk in 
them. He was become a man now 1 ; 
for the way had been long and weary. 

So he walked onward in the fields. 
He raised his eyes and looked far over 
them; but he could not see the end, 
so far they stretched. But those he 
met there spoke among themselves of 
a place beyond the fields, where there 
were still waters and evening sunlight ; 
and the tale was pleasing to him. "It 
is my future," he murmured, and went 
on toward it 

But the fields were rough and 
broken; and it rained, and the mire 
hung on him so he could but move; 
and the brambles caught him ; and his 
limbs grew weary ; and he longed for 
the banks of the still waters and for 
the evening sunlight. But ever the 
fields seemed endless. Yet he went 
forward, for he might not stop; and 
at last he lifted up his eyes and beheld 
the shadows of the evening on the still 
waters. And he was an old man 

So he went on, and came to the 
place of the still waters. But it did 
not please him. The waters were all 
too quiet, like to death; and the sun 
was too far down; and the evening 
was damp and chill. It was lonely, 
there was none he knew to talk to, and 
he had naught to do but think of the 
mountains, and the land that looked 
pleasant from afar, and the barren 

Digitized by 



land, and the weary fields. So he called it very fair, beyond all manner 

walked on toward the setting sun, and of that which he had seen. And his 

knew not where he went. thoughts were ravished by this 

Then there came into his mind that thought. "It is my future," he whis- 

along his way at times (but mostly pered sofdy. And he moved on. And 

ere he crossed the mountains), he had as he went, he raised his eyes, to 

heard say of a wonderful country out search out the fair country ; but the 

beyond, in the way he was still going, sunset haze was before him and he 

He had thought little of it ; for the could see only that. Yet he went f or- 

land had looked pleasant, and the ward. The sun set, and the land grew 

fields green, and the place of the still dark. 

waters had seemed good to him in fair And he who had started upon a 

report. But now he thought of it; journey to Somewhere — was at his 

and the memory came, that people journey's end. 


A century of snows have seen, 
And glorified thy unchanged green, 

My Cedars. 
The going of a hundred years, 
With all its joy, and pain, and tears, 

Oh Cedars, 
Is but a little butterfly, 
Pausing now, then fluttering by 

Thee, Cedars. 
Beneath thy drooping boughs each day, 
Ghostly processions wend their way; 

Sad Cedars. 
Sometimes the passing of a soul, 
Seeking at last its heavenly goal ; 

Grave Cedars I 
Sometimes just laughter-loving Youth, 
Who lightly speaks of God and Truth. 

Ah, Cedars, 
Ye know the mysteries of life ; 
Its endless battles, ceaseless strife; 

Wise Cedars. 
Did brides who passed beneath thy boughs, 
Hold sacred all their marriage vows, 

Green Cedars? 
And when at night ye moan and sigh, 
Is it because we too must die, 

Dark Cedars? 
Is it because of future fears, 
Or just the pain of other years, 

Old Cedars? 
The dust of summer's on thee now; 
But once again each bending bough, 

Tall Cedars, 
Will be as green as e'er of yore, 
When we are gone for evermore, 

My Cedars! 

Cornelia Channing Ward. 

Digitized by 



By Frank H. Sweet 

f URmemoriesof 
'* the quaint, old- 
fashioned gardens 
of our childhood 
are of sweet-smell- 
ing herbs and 
roses and daffo- 
j* d i 1 s ; of hardy, 
free-growing per- 
ennials still in honored positions; and 
of peonies and hollyhocks and fox- 
gloves not yet relegated to the semi- 
obscurity of backgrounds and garden 
corners. There are stiff, inclosing 
hedges which are uncompromising in 
their attitude to the outer world ; and 
in the charming interior are prim, 
geometrical outlines of box which 
separate the annuals from the per- 
ennials, the evergreen from the de- 
ciduous, the sweet-smelling from the 
merely rich of bloom. There are rows 
of mint, and squares of rosemary, and 
circles of lavender, and perhaps cres- 
cents and oblongs and dots of balm 
and sweet marjoram and thyme. Beds 
of pink-flowering daphne and of 
columbine and Canterbury bell are in- 
closed by borders of white daisies and 
creeping phlox and Solomon's seal, 
and these in turn by the inevitable 
guard of box. June pinks peep shyly 
over their walls at the Sweet Williams 
across the path, and stately hollyhocks 
observe and bend down with tingling 
cheeks to whisper to the lilies, whose 
fair, white faces scarcely change. 

Rustic arbors hold an honored posi- 
tion in these gardens, and the wista- 
rias and honeysuckles and trumpet 
vines which clamber over them seem 
to riot in their own luxuriousness. 
Every point of vantage is taken pos- 
session of by the eager, swaying ten- 
drils, until the arbors are seeming 
mounds of flowers and foliage, about 

which butterflies and humming birds 
dart, and into which robins and spar- 
rows penetrate and nest. In the shade, 
four-o'clocks bloom and mass them- 
selves into thick, yielding carpets, and 
perhaps near the entrance is a clump 
of tiger lilies or a compact, gorgeous 
bed of peonies. It is in these arbors 
that the children study their lessons 
out of school hours, and give their tea 
parties; and, later, where the young 
men of the neighborhood whisper 
sweet things to the maidens of the 

In conspicuous corners are great 
clumps of lilacs, or "laylocks," whose 
fragrance predominates the morning 
air and diffuses itself over the entire 
vicinity; and among the flower beds 
proper are the cherished "love apples," 
not thought edible, but which were 
later proscribed to the vegetable gar- 
den under the rechristened name of 
tomatoes. Pear trees encroach the 
flowers on one side, or perhaps sepa- 
rate them from the vegetables; while 
along the hedges are trellises upon 
which grapes ripen in questioning de- 
fiance of the frost. 

But most prominent and distin- 
guished of all are the roses, the 
acknowledged queens of old-fashioned 
gardens. They held first place in the 
hearts of our mothers and grandmoth- 
ers, who trained them over the win- 
dows and angles of their comfortable 
gambrel-roofed houses. Our memo- 
ries are rich with them ; Ayrshires and 
Prairies and Multifloras, clambering 
over the sides of buildings, and over 
fences and walls, and trailing riot- 
ously upon the ground among the 
flowers and aromatic old garden herbs ; 
sweetbriers and mosses, and great 
straggling colonies of red and white 
roses without names; and in favored 

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spots of the garden, glorious masses 
of Madame Rantiers and Jacks and 
Paul Neyrons and Glorie de Bordeaux, 
and of French Damasks. We remem- 
ber them as ever-blooming, beginning 
with May and only ending with cold 
weather, but of course with a supera- 
bundance of flowers in June. There 
was rarely a time between frost and 
frost when the young man could not 
find a bud for his button hole, or the 
maiden for her hair. 

These old gardens are rich in plants 
that increase in beauty from year to 
year. There are no ribbon or carpet 
beds of coleus and other bright-hued, 
short-lived plants. Such frail things, 
when had, were kept by our grand- 
mothers as window plants. The gar- 
den was not for a day or month, but 
for permanence; and the ground was 
laid out and prepared with almost as 
much care as was given to planning 
the house itself. In congenial soil the 
lilies and hollyhocks spread out into 
strong clumps, the roses bloomed and 
rebloomed, the masses of peonies be- 
came rounded hillocks of immense 
white and red flowers, and the climb- 
ers rioted up and away until there 
were no more heights for them to con- 
quer. Spring was ushered in with 
myriads of snowdrops and violets, 
with yellow daffodils and rare blue 
scillas, and then followed in quick suc- 
cession by lilies-of-the-valley, lilacs, 
daphnes, roses, poppies, columbines, 
pinks, lilies, hollyhocks, foxgloves, 
larkspurs, primroses; and only when 
the snows of late November shut down 
over the face of the garden would the 
season close with a last bright bunch 
of heart's-ease. And all of them, from 
the snowdrops to the heart's-ease, are 
impressed upon our memories as the 
most beautiful of their kind. Who 
ever saw roses like those our grand- 
mothers raised? or climbers like those 
which covered the garden hedges, or 
clambered over the eaves of the house 
and up the gambrel roof to the very 
base of the great colonial chimney? 
Not you or I, certainly; or, for that 
matter, any one who has a regard for 
the truth. 

Occasionally we come across one of 

these old gardens of our grand- 
mothers, quaint and unchanged ; lifted 
bodily as it were from the past, and 
brought to us across the vicissitudes 
of a changing age. We catch glimpses 
of it through die narrow embrasures 
of frowning hedges, and whiff its aro- 
matic odors with a strange sensation 
of being away from oursdves and in 
another world. It is invested with a 
silence appropriately its own, and we. 
almost feel like raising our hats as we 
tiptoe past To hear children playing 
noisy games in such a place would be 
almost as much of a shock as to see 
the sedate, spectacled owner come 
through the embrasure on a bicycle. 

Such gardens are rare, of course, 
for the spirit of innovation is strong 
and only on the unfashionable streets 
of the old, old towns have their bar- 
riers remained intact against the in- 
vestment of outside progression. 

But everywhere are reminders of 
them, old gardens whose hedges have 
given way to modern low mils and 
chain fences, and geometrical figures 
of box have yielded their out-of-date 
herbs and "four o'clocks" and "even- 
ing beauties" to the flaunting, high- 
colored novelties of the seed cata- 
logues. Hollyhocks, self-seeded from 
the old stock, may still linger along 
the back hedges, and quaint patterns 
of box and perhaps a bed of peonies 
and Canterbury bells be allowed to 
remain by sufferance in their old posi- 
tions ; but the chances are that the eld 
arbor has given place to a tennis court, 
and the generous beds of herbs to the 
gorgeous set-colors of carpet and rib- 
bon-bed patterns. It is as though the 
eyes of our grandmothers were ques- 
tioning us from under the brims of 
modern millinery. 

These evolving old-fashioned gar- 
dens are familiar to the villagers and 
country folk of New England and the 
South, and though, in a way, they are 
but distorted vistas of the past, yet 
they give us many backward glimpses 
we could not otherwise obtain. 

But the real old-fashioned garden, 
unchanged even to the isolating of its 
peony bed and aromatic borders, and 
with the self-same rustic arbor in 

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which our grandmother received the 
cavaliers who came a-courting, appear 
to us at rare intervals through the em- 
brasure of hedges; not more than a 
half-dozen times in a life's length, per- 
haps, and only in the older portions 
of the old, old towns. But they are 
always the same quaint, protesting re- 
cluses, whether we find them in Salem 
or Bristol or Richmond or Savannah 
or New Orleans, and differing only in 
characteristics with the condition of 
climate and people ; the hedges of New 
England changing to the high stone 
walls and narrow wickets of Spanish 
St. Augustine, and the "laylocks" and 
comfreys and snowberries of the one 
to the myrtles and oleanders and hibis- 
cus of the other. It matters not in 
which of the old towns we are, or in 
front of what manner of old-fashioned 
garden ; the reverential curiosity is the 
same. Many a time have I walked 
along St. George's street, of the An- 
cient City, watching for the possible 
opening of a wicket in the grim wall 
which towered four or five feet above 
my head, and feeling amply rewarded 
if I caught a glimpse of the old 
Spanish garden within. And the 
same feeling has been with me when 
negotiating for entrance into an old 
garden at Pensacola or Tallahassee or 
in some of the Middle Atlantic States. 
It is not beauty or artistic arrange- 
ment that influences us, but rather 
reverence for that which has been 
created and deemed good by our an- 
cestors. We may fail in adequate ex- 
pression of our admiration for some 
of the magnificent gardens in the 
suburbs of Boston, and at Newport, 
R. I., but our rapture has little in com- 
nlon with the holy feeling which takes 
possession of us when we enter one of 
the quaint, unchanged gardens of the 
older portions of the towns. 

In rural communities there was an 
odd custom of isolating the garden 
from the house, and surrounding it 
with a stone wall. Why it was so is 
not apparent, for the small inclosure 
was difficult for the farmer to work 
with a team; and, besides, was not 
easy of access for the women of the 
household. At my old home "the gar- 

den," so called, was at considerable 
distance from the house, with a wide 
lawn, or "yard," and one field to cross. 
No one seemed to know its origin, 
save that it could be traced back a 
hundred years or more to a great- 
grandfather. It had never been 
worked, even in the memory of the 
oldest member of the family, a more 
convenient garden having been made 
directly behind the house. But to us 
children the few square rods of neg- 
lected, bushgrowti, wall-inclosed land, 
whereon we had never seen a flower 
or vegetable grown, was always "the 

At more pretentious places there 
was often a rose garden thus isolated, 
and perhaps surrounded by a hedge 
in addition to the wall. Even now, 
half-wild descendants of some of the 
rose roots may be found in old, neg- 
lected gardens. 

Joining this inclosure, and separated 
from them by hedges, were usually 
the flower garden proper, made up 
mostly of hardy shrubs and herba- 
ceous plants, and the kitchen garden, 
wherein may still be found occasional 
evidence of ancient rhubarb and "spar- 
rergrass" beds. 

Few of these isolated gardens are 
worked now. They are too small for 
the modern farmer's idea of space. 
He dislikes wall angles and dividing 
fences, and feels that he cannot turn 
his plow to the sharp angles of the 
small inclosures. But for some reason 
he does not tear the old walls down, 
as he does other useless divisions on 
his farm; so they remain, choked with 
shrubs and weeds, pathetic reminders 
of a past which is obscured by dis- 

Most of our early gardens were 
from English models, even to the time 
of planting and varieties of seeds. 
Then as the climate and its conditions 
became better known, slight changes 
were made in the plants and planting 
to meet the new knowledge; but for 
the most part the manner of working 
and the modeling remained the same. 
We can easily imagine our neighbor's 
garden to be the counterpart of Shake- 
speare's at Stratford, where in early 

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spring appeared "the yellow and gray 
crocus, primroses, anemones, violets, 
yellow daffodils — 

"That come before the swallow dares 
And takes the winds of March with 

the daisy, sweetbrier, and the "blos- 
soms of the almond and peach"; and 
later, the wall and stock, gilliflower, 
lily, rosemary, peony, columbine, 
lavender, and French marigold, the 
musk roses and monkshood, and so 
on to the poppies of September, the 
hollyhocks and late roses of October 
and November; and, in warm situa- 
tions, the periwinkles of December. 

Intimately connected with the his- 
tory of the English garden, and con- 
sequently with our own old-fashioned 
gardens, is the violet. It appears in 
the first English list of plants as "Ban- 
wyrt," or bone herb. Perhaps it is 
not strange that we should accept its 
Latin name from our Norman-French 
conquerors, although we would not 
accept it from the early monks. Not 
until the fifteenth century does it ap- 
pear on English plant lists as "Wyo- 
let" — little flower. A great change 
had meanwhile taken place in the idea 
of gardens, not a little of which was 
due to the poets and to the employ- 
ment of flowers as expressing poetic 
sentiments. The fact that the daisy 
is purely English and Saxon, and that 
it appears (as Daegesege) on the ear- 
liest English lists, shows that our fath- 
ers, even in the earliest times, had a 
feeling for any flowers that expressed 
a sentiment to their minds. Even here, 
however, we are not left without 
doubts as to our forefathers' origin- 
ality, for the Welsh, the descendants 
of the ancient Britons, while they have 
another word for daisy, use a term 

that expresses the same meaning, 
namely, the "day's eye." 

These glimpses of an early tendency 
toward flower gardens are interesting 
as the first crude efforts to form the 
collections which later developed into 
herb gardens, heath gardens, rock gar- 
dens, wild gardens, rose gardens, villa 
gardens, and the like; the planning 
and arranging of which was naturally 
at first stiff and formal. 

Doubtless the first transplanting 
from the woods and fields were of 
"worts" or herbs, as medicinal reme- 
dies; and then, as knowledge of the 
art increased, plants selected for their 
beauty alone were added. 

It was not until within the past fifty 
years, perhaps in the last twenty-five, 
that this stiff formality began to dis- 
appear. But the change has been so 
complete and radical, that the garden 
of our grandmother is as far removed 
from that of the present day as is the 
minuet from the modern two-step. 

Year by year the old-fashioned gar- 
dens are yielding to the march of 
progress. Old towns are taking on 
new blocks and widening ancient 
streets, cities are absorbing their 
suburbs, and gambrel-roofed land- 
marks are giving way to factories and 
office buildings. At St. Augustine the 
palace hotels and ubiquitous curiosity 
stores have already destroyed most of 
the old Spanish gardens. And, in a 
lesser degree, it is the same at New 
Orleans, Charleston, Richmond, as 
well as in most of the New England 
cities and towns. Another generation, 
and the old-fashioned garden will al- 
most be a thing of the past, its quaint, 
box-inclosed parallelograms and cir- 
cles and crescents laid peacefully to 
rest beneath the tennis court and mod- 
ern department store. 

Digitized by 



By Paul Cook 

*E was a pleasant look- 
ing chap and when he 
made a facetious re- 
mark about a waiter 
who could never fill 
an order correctly, 
Bismark smiled a t 
him amiably across 
the table. The man 
was evidently a per- 
son of some impor- 
tance in the world — a prosperous law- 
yer, maybe, or perhaps a successful 
physician. The cut of his garments, 
his striking face and dignified bearing 
proclaimed him above his fellows. 

The acquaintance thus casually be- 
gun progressed rapidly. Soon Bis- 
mark and the stranger were chatting 
together as if they had known each 
other all their lives. 

"By the way," said the pleasant 
looking man, "you are not a resident 
of Number Thirty-seven?" 

"No-o-o," answered Bismark, rath- 
er mystified. "I am not a resident of 
Number Thirty-seven. What is it, 
any way?" 
The other stared at him curiously. 
"Why, Number Thirty-seven is the 
skyscraper of which I have the honor 
to be mayor at the present time. And 
you tell me," he exclaimed, with grow- 
ing amazement, "that you don't even 
know what Number Thirty-seven is, 
when you are right now seated at one 
of the tables in Number Thirty-seven's 
first dining room? But, pardon me, 
I see you are a stranger in America." 
"Well, to a certain extent, yes," 
admitted Bismark. "I am a native ot 
this country but have lived for the 
past thirty years in the South Pacific 
*i*d this is my first visit to the land 

of my birth since I left it a youth of 

"Then you are not familiar with 
our skyscraper communities," contin- 
ued the distinguished looking man, as 
he produced a card bearing the words, 
"Philetus Daub, Mayor of Thirty- 

"I don't know how in the world 
you ever found your way in here. I 
will try to explain matters. You are 
now in what is known as the first din- 
ing room of a fifty-story building. We 
are on the thirteenth floor and conse- 
quently you must have taken one of 
our express elevators to get up here. 
This structure is one of the hand- 
somest in existence," he proclaimed 
proudly, "and is so constructed that 
the weight of the upper stories is sus- 
tained without danger of a collapse. 
Of course, no wind that blows could 
ever damage the building and it is ab- 
solutely fireproof. 

"But to proceed. You probably ob- 
served the first floor when you were 
looking for an elevator. No? Well, 
that is devoted to our theater, our post 
office, our stores and the general busi- 
ness district. It is there that we do 
our shopping and we can purchase 
everything needful to support exist- 
ence, even all the luxuries of life, with- 
out leaving the building. From the 
second to the tenth floor, inclusive, 
are located offices occupied by busi- 
ness and professional men. But come, 
I will show you through Number 

So saying, Philetus Daub escorted 
Bismark to an elevator and they de- 
scended to the basement. 

"Here," said Daub, leading the way 
briskly, "we have our power plant for 

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lighting, the building and operating 
most of our mechanical conveniences, 
our gas plant, pumping station — which 
pumps water to every part of the 
building from our own artesian wells 
— our ice plant, furnace rooms,storage 
rooms, air tanks and generators. 
Quite a busy place, is it not?" 

After threading a labyrinth of cor- 
ridors Mayor Daub arrived at another 

"Now," he said, "we will visit the 
first, or ground floor."* 

Here Bismark saw a great crowd ot 
people thronging the passage ways 
and making purchases at the numer- 
ous shops which displayed signs and 
invited business in every direction. 
Judging from the bustle and activity 
apparent, trade was flourishing. There 
were stores where every imaginable 
article could be bought, barber shops, 
butcher shops and establishments of 
varied description. Bismark was as- 
tonished to see heavily loaded electric 
trucks as well as carriages containing 
women driven into the building and 
down broad, tiled lanes. A perform- 
ance of a popular play was being 
given in the theatre by a company of 
players devoid of professional jeal- 

After a stroll through this interest- 
ing business district Bismark followed 
his conductor to another elevator. 

"Now we can make a hurried trip 
from the second to the twelfth floor," 
said Mayor Daub, who has kept busy 
returning the salutes of friends and 
bowing right and left to acquaint- 
ances. Every one — men, women and 
children — greeted him with marked 
respect. "These floors are devoted to 
offices, as I told you before, so we will 
simply pass through one floor and 
proceed then to the school floor, which 
is the twelfth." 

Bismark found a perfectly arranged 
and highly systematized school, where 
every branch of knowledge was 
taught; and a gymnasium, social 
rooms, society halls and an audito- 
rium formed part of the equipment. 

"Of course," explained Philetus 
Daub, "our stores, theatre, our schools, 
dining rooms, officer and club rooms 

are patronized principally by the in- 
habitants of Number Thirty-seven, 
but this is chiefly for the sake of con- 
venience, since a man can live and 
procure everything he wants under 
one roof. There is free intercourse 
between the residents of this and other 
skyscrapers, but you will find that our 
merchants patronize our lawyers and 
doctors, our doctors and lawyers buy 
goods from our merchants, while all 
our institutions, whether for business 
or pleasure, are supported largely by 
our own people." 

Leaving the twelfth floor, after a 
tour of class rooms filled with stu- 
dents of all ages, Philetus Daub con- 
ducted his companion to the thirteenth 
floor of the building, where the first 
dining room and kitchen, together 
with cafes and culinary establishments, 
were situated. The dining room was 
a huge affair, capable of seating sev- 
eral thousand people at a time. Bis- 
mark found the arrangements here ad- 
mirable, although he was told that 
"concentrated" food was served to 
those who did not eat more substan- 
tial products of the farm and barn- 
yard. The lunch hour was past but in 
the large kitchen there was much 
bustle and confusion among the vari- 
ous cooks and their assistants. Nu- 
merous refreshment booths were scat- 
tered about and all the establishments 
which cater to the inner man were 
found on this floor. 

"This is one of our dining rooms," 
said Daub. "We have another exactly 
like it on the twenty-sixth floor. It 
was found best to have two floors de- 
voted to culinary operations for the 
convenience of our tenants. Of course 
there are many people in the building 
who prefer pellet food, and they are 
accommodated at the concentrated 
food restaurants, but I am happy to 
state that a majority of the people 
continue to eat the substantial viands 
enjoyed by their forbears. Residents 
engaged in business below the thir- 
teenth story patronize the first dining 
room during the day, as it is more 
convenient for them, while the second 
dining room is used principally by 
families. In the evening business men 

Digitized by 




join their wives and children there and 
this dining* room is closed until time 
to serve the noon meal next day. 

"Now we will go to the fourteenth 
floor. Ah! a quick trip I Here, you 
see, are located our executive offices. 
That is mine to the right. The other 
offices are occupied by my assistants, 
including floor superintendents, floor 
patrol chiefs, head janitors, sanitary 
inspectors, medical chief of staff, chief 
electrician and the heads of many 
other departments concerned in look- 
ing after the welfare of our com- 

Daub and Bismark set out for the 
twenty-sixth floor, passing rapidly by 
the intervening stories, "Here," said 
Daub, "live some of our best citizens 
who make their homes in the building. 
The rooms are rented en suite or 
singly, men of wealth reserving as 
many as they wish for the exclusive 
use of themselves and families. We 
will not intrude on the privacy of these 
people, but I will tell you that the cor- 
ridors on this floor are really streets 
and at times present an inspiring sight 
when filled with women paying cans." 

Just then a thought struck Bismark. 
"But how do you get light and air?" 
he asked. "We must be some dis- 
tance from the outside walls and the 
sunlight could not penetrate to this 
part of the building. Yet, the atmos- 
phere is delightful and every corner 
is as light as day without any visible 
means of illumination." 

Philetus Daub looked amused. 
"Why, that is the simplest thing in 
the world," said he. "We make our 
own light and our own air. The air 
is manufactured in our laboratory in 
the basement and is pumped to every 
part of the building through pipes. By 
the aid of a highly perfected system 
of ventilation we are enabled to keep 
the air in the building fresh at all 
hours. We pride ourselves on making 
air that is chemically pure and free 
from germs, while improvements and 
discoveries in electrical science permit 
as to illuminate the building so that 
the light of day is never missed. 

"Now we have arrived at the 
twenty-sixth floor," said Daub. "On 

this floor we have our second dining 
room, cafes, kitchens and places of re- 
freshment similar to those you saw 
on the thirteenth floor. The twenty- 
seventh floor is devoted to more 
schools, a gymnasium, club quarters 
and like establishments. The floors 
from the twenty-eighth to the forty- 
ninth, inclusive, are devoted to living 
rooms. On the fiftieth floor we have 
a superb roof garden and public park 
which we will visit after dinner, if 
you feel so disposed. It is now about 
six o'clock and, if you wish, we will 
return to the second dining room and 
have something to eat." 

As they proceeded to an elevator 
Daub continued to talk volubly. Said 

"Of course you understand that this 
building is devoted exclusively to peo- 
ple who use their brains more than 
their hands. There are other sky- 
scrapers — notably Twenty-four — that 
are in reality great factories, with liv- 
ing apartments on the upper floors. 
The first twenty floors are taken up 
by machinery and wtork rooms, while 
the remaining floors are occupied by 
the workmen and their families. In 
this way laborers are always near their 
work. Smoke?" asked Daub, with a 
smile. "Oh, yes, we have solved that 

"Ah, here we are at the dining 
room! I see a waiter beckoning to 

As soon as they were seated at a 
table and had settled themselves com- 
fortably Daub permitted Bismark to 
gaze about curiously at the great 
crowd that filled the place. Then he 
resumed : 

"The huge size of our buildings, 
and especially their height, has ren- 
dered it necessary for us to place them 
wide apart. It is fully half a mile to 
the next building. The intervening 
space is taken up by driveways and 
public parks. Ah! the menu!" ex- 
claimed Daub, breaking off sudden- 

Bismark looked up. On a great 
curtain stretched across one end of 
the dining hall appeared the bill of 
fare, printed in glowing letters and 

Digitized by 




produced by a powerful electrical ma- 
chine. Across the top Bismark read: 



Dinner for Tuesday, June 24, 1950. 

Then followed a list of the viands 
prepared by the chifs for that day. 

Bismark ate with a relish many ap- 
petizing dishes brought to the table 
by automatic carriers. After the meal 
was finished the two friends repaired 
to the roof garden where for several 
hours Bismark wandered with Daub 
in a fairyland close up under the 

At last the tired revelers withdrew, 
the lights were being extinguished and 
silence was falling upon the place, 
when Philetus Daub conducted Bis- 
mark down to earth again. They 
stood on the pavement in the shadow 
of the giant building. Across a leafy 
park another huge structure loomed 
up against the sky, its cornices ap- 
parently supporting the heavens and 
the moon hovering at one corner. In 
other directions similar edifices rose 
from the earth, mighty hives housing 
a host of people. Bismark was silent, 
oppressed by the magnitude of all he 

"You will come again?" asked 

Philetus Daub, as he held out his 

"No," said Bismarck, a touch of 
sadness in his voice. "The world has 
outstripped me. I am not up-to-date 
and I am going back to my little island 
in the Pacific. Good-bye." 

He extended his hand to grasp that 
of his newly-found friend but instead 
he clutched at empty air. He strained 
his eyes to peer into the gloom of the 
doorway. No one was there. Had he 
been dreaming? He glanced through 
the glass entrance doors of the great 
building but among the few forms 
now moving towards the elevators he 
could not descry the broad shoulders 
of Philetus Daub. He shook himself 
and gazed upward at the outlines of 
the building towering above him. Yes, 
it looked to be fifty stories high. 
Across the intervening park he saw a 
similar hu^e frame piercing the heav- 
ens. Bewildered, he stepped into the 
street and hailed a passing electric 
hansom. "Do you know," he ques- 
tioned the cabby, "a good, safe, quiet 
hotel near the pier of the South Pacific 
Steamship line?" 

"Yes, sir," was the reply. 

"Then drive me there," commanded 
Bismark* stepping inside. "And I'll 
not leave my room till the steamer 
sails," he murmured, as he settled 
himself in the cushions. 


I dream that friendship still blooms in this world, that there are more poets than 
cynics; that men and women heroically die; that there is grand, self -sacrificing love, 
and courage, truth, and honor. I dream that evil in the end is vanquished by good ; 
that wrong punishes self ; that malice is consumed by its own poisonous fire, and that 
selfishness is selfishness' hell. I dream that there are some bright sparks of worth 
in every human breast, and that there is ceaseless redemption for all ; that angels 
hover about this earth with invisible touches of sympathy, inspiration, warmth, and 
gentleness in the midst of our soul's fiercest battles. I dream that there is grati- 
tude in nature as in beast and man ; that the watered plant smiles its acknowledg- 
ment ; that animals appreciate kind treatment, and thank in ways of trust and play- 
ful ease ; that ingratitude in man is often madness which needs our pity rather than 
contempt, and sometimes awkward ignorance, that is not quick to recognize a favor, 
and does not know how to receive a boon. I dream that man sins more from suggestion 
than depravity and from wild yearning for affection and for rest ; that crime is not 
rarely the exhaustion of struggle ; that there are more sick than bad, more misunder- 
stood than designing, and more unhappy than unkind. I dream that there are hours 
in every life which generously pay for its sojourn here, and that therefore no life is 
valueless. I dream that all my dreams are real, and that I die only when I cannot 
^eam. Bert Finck. 

Digitized by 



By Day Allen WMey 

[ROGRESS and pros- 
perity are two words 
which the reader ex- 
pects to find in arti- 
cles relative to the 
Southern States, as 
referred to in these 
days by the magazine 
and newspaper con- 
t r i b u t o r . Such 
phrases as "the 
wealth of the South," "Southern re- 
sources," and "the potentialities of the 
Southern States" play a prominent 
part in description of commerce, in- 
dustry and other forms of activity in 
the region beyond the Ohio and Po- 
tomac rivers. So often is this section 
thus complimented, that it is a ques- 
tion if it has not been overdone by 
the enthusiastic laborers in its behalf, 
especially when so many facts are 
available which are seldom presented 
to verify the mere general assertion. 
When the narrators confine them- 
selves to certain features of Southern 
progress and prosperity, they have an 
abundant variety of topics on which to 
dwell. For example, the single item 
of cotton and its relation to Southern 
development is indeed fascinating in 
analyzing the many ways in which it 
has aided in benefiting not only the 
cotton belt, but all of the States classed 
as Southern. One can tell the truth 
yet produce figures which are surpris- 
ing in their magnitude. The same is 
true as regards the hidden wealth con- 
tained in the great ore deposits of 
commonwealths like Alabama and 
Tennessee. West Virginia could fur- 
nish the fuel to keep in action the in- 
dustries of the entire country, such 
is the extent of its coal mines. The 
forests, phosphate beds, the territory 

skirting the coast, which has been 
turned into a vast vegetable garden, 
form other subjects which can be ex- 
ploited elaborately yet honestly in 
print. Strange to say, there is another 
topic on the same line which thus far 
has been but little touched upon by the 
friends of the South, yet it is doubt- 
ful if any of the resources mentioned 
form a stronger argument in proof of 
the business soundness and stability 
of this portion of the country, for it 
has remarkably demonstrated what 
might be termed its recuperative 

Desolated by being the scene of war 
for nearly six years, the South has not 
escaped further affliction as those fa- 
miliar with the present history are too 
well aware. Within the last five years, 
three catastrophes have occurred 
which can be classed among the great 
disasters of a century. First came the 
storm which almost obliterated Gal- 
veston. Not a year had passed be- 
fore the heart of Jacksonville was 
swept by the flames, and more recently 
a similar visitation reduced a broad 
expanse of the commercial center of 
Baltimore to heaps of ruins. The 
calamities which preceded that of Bal- 
timore were momentous in the loss of 
property, but in addition the loss of 
human life in the Galveston storm was 
appalling in its proportions. Consid- 
ering the population of the city the 
monetary loss was also of great pro- 
portions, although but little heed was 
given to it in noting the 6,000 human 
victims — a sixth of the entire num- 
ber of inhabitants. The sum of $20,- 
000,000 represented the destruction to 
buildings and their contents. 

When the extent of the catastrophe 
was realized by the people outside, 

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the question was not whether Galves- 
ton would ever recover, for few dared 
hint at such a prediction. Here was 
a low, sandy island exposed for miles 
to the open sea, and so near the zone 
of tropical hurricanes that a repetition 
might occur at any time. The idea of 
abandoning the city and establishing 
another Galveston on the mainland 
was seriously considered, but the citi- 
zens determined to defy nature and in- 
trench themselves on the spot where 
they had suffered. It was this deter- 
mination that resulted in the creation 
of what is literally a new city, and one 
of which not only its residents can be 
proud, but in which Americans gen- 
erally can take pride, for considering 
the resources of the people and the 
character of the undertaking which 
they have nearly accomplished, the 
new Galveston represents one of the 
most notable civic achievements of 
modern times. 

It is worth while to briefly outline 
what has been done by Galveston to 
maintain its position as the metropolis 
of Texas, and the chief port of the 
State, for the work has by no means 
been limited to restoration. Realizing 
the imperative necessity for suitable 
protection against further storms, the 
residents of the city and suburbs voted 
to incur a debt of $3,500,000 in order 
to sell bonds to raise funds for a sea 
wall which would not only be useful, 
but enhance the attractiveness of the 
community. Such was the public loy- 
alty and faith, that the txwid buyers 
included all classes — bankers, mer- 
chants, clerks and even laborers, who 
willingly gave of their scanty earn- 
ings. Consequently, the great barrier 
which has been but recently completed 
has been provided almost entirely by 
funds raised locally, and with but little 
outside assistance. It skirts the island 
for a distance of over three miles, be- 
ing more than 17,000 feet in length, 
while it rises to a height of seventeen 
feet above the water, which in the es- 
timation of engineers makes it an ob- 
struction which will withstand waves 
of the size which overwhelmed the city 
in 1900. At the top it is of sufficient 
width to form a promenade, but back 

of the wall the surface has been filled 
in with material and a broad hand- 
some boulevard created, giving the 
city an ornamental sea front, which 
can well be envied by many a larger 
community, which is devoid of this 

While the wall was being con- 
structed the inhabitants were busily 
engaged in the work of restoring the 
thousands of buildings which had been 
either wholly or partially destroyed. 
When it is stated that the structures 
which have risen from the ruins are 
fully as pretentious and in many in- 
stances more costly than those of the 
older Galveston, an idea of the im- 
mense outlay can be realized, but the 
work truly begun, it proceeded with 
few delays, and to-day the visitor to 
Galveston can see merely vestiges of 
the calamity of 1900. Taking advan- 
tage of the advice of the landscape 
engineers, the leading architects of the 
country, and other experts, very am- 
bitious plans have been carried out, 
considering the population and finan- 
cial resources, but the business feature 
has not been overlooked. The harbor 
has been deepened to such an extent 
that ample facilities are afforded for 
the loading of large steamships. Ele- 
vators, warehouses, and piers of di- 
mensions suitable to accommodate not 
only the present but the future com- 
merce have been erected, and the rail- 
roads have joined hands with the busi- 
ness men in the determination to not 
only maintain the present importance 
of the port but to increase it 

The afflictions of Galveston and 
Jacksonville were somewhat similar, 
in the fact that their population is 
nearly the same, estimating the popu- 
lation of the former upon the census 
taken after the storm, for Jackson- 
ville at the time of its great fire con- 
tained less than 30,000 people. Among 
the Southern communities, however, 
its growth has been unusually rapid, 
increasing over 10,000 in a period of 
ten years. While its financial loss was 
placed at $12,000,000, or less than two- 
thirds that of its sister city, consider- 
ing the total value of its real estate, 
it suffered far more heavily, but for- 

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tunately the terrible sacrifice of homes 
which accompanied the Galveston 
storm was absent. When the smoke 
cleared away and the people of Jack- 
sonville were able to form a partial 
estimate of the blow which had been 
struck, they saw a district embracing 
nearly a square mile of the most ac- 
tive portion of the municipality, a 
stretch of blackened and charred de- 
bris. No conflagration of such mag- 
nitude has ever visited any American 
city of the same size, and it is doubtful 
if history furnishes an account of any 
community of the samel number of in- 
habitants being so completely fire- 
swept. The greater portion of the 
wharf front was devastated, as well 
as the wholesale district, while many 
large industries and some of the most 
important hotels, office buildings, 
warehouses and dwellings fell a prey 
to the fire, which passed over nearly 
150 city blocks. 

In this instance no extraordinary 
expense was required for sea-wall, but 
it was necesary to restore nearly all of 
the facilities for commerce which had 
been destroyed, if Jacksonville was to 
maintain its position as one of the 
principal seaports of Florida. Con- 
sidering its size, it has been one of the 
most diversified industrial centers not 
only in the South, but in the United 
States. It has been the market for a 
very large proportion of the phosphate 
mined in Florida. From its wharves 
have been shipped cargoes of lumber 
and fruit, in addition to cotton, while 
its trade in naval stores has given it 
a worldwide reputation. The people 
realized that if their city was to hold 
its own the effect of the fire must be 
overcome, and that quickly. Here, 
again, the spirit of hopefulness and 
determination was manifested in the 
rapidity and extent of the rebuilding, 
while the necessary funds to provide 
for the outlay were promptly forth- 
coming. Already the progress of res- 
toration has been of such proportions, 
that, as at Galveston, only here and 
there can be seen reminders of the 

The details of the Baltimore calami- 
ty are still fresh in the public mind. 

Well was it that Baltimore's reputa- 
tion for wealth and prosperity has not 
been exaggerated, for again the heart 
of the city in a commercial and finan- 
cial sense was singled out for destruc- 
tion. True, the area burned over was 
but smdl compared with that of the 
Jacksonville fire, but it included bank 
and office buildings, many of which 
ranged in value from $500,000 to $1,- 
000,000, nearly all of the larger ware- 
houses and mercantile establishments 
and a number of important industries. 
The better portion of Baltimore street 
— the Broadway of the city — was left 
in ruins, and out of nearly 1,400 struc- 
tures of various kinds, less than a 
dozen were so little damaged as to be 
suitable for occupancy. The ninety- 
six blocks of buildings swept by the 
flames represented a monetary value 
of no less than $80,000,000, including 
their contents. After all the insurance 
was paid, the municipal wealth was 
depleted to the extent of over fifty 
millions of dollars. These figures it 
may be said are based upon informa- 
tion obtained by a thorough canvass of 
the burnt district, and can be accepted 
as a conservative estimate. 

The story of what has been done in 
Baltimore since its visitation is to a 
great extent a repetition of the stories 
of Galveston and Jacksonville, for 
here, too, the cloud of adversity has 
had a silver lining. Although weeks 
passed before its people "pulled them- 
selves together," and made a united 
effort to restore the waste places, such 
has been the activity after plans were 
mit into execution, that a remarkable 
transformation has taken place. It 
can be said without contradiction, that 
in the main, the new structures which 
have arisen are of a better grade, and 
that many of the merchants and manu- 
facturers have taken advantage of the 
situation to enlarge their facilities. 
Like many of the older settled com- 
munities of the United States numer- 
ous thoroughfares in Baltimore have 
been so narrow as to seriously inter- 
fere with traffic. Public improvements 
have been planned on such a scale, that 
the more important streets have been 
broadened to make them adequate, not 

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only for the commerce of the present, 
but for the future. An opportunity 
has also been afforded to plan a se- 
ries of wharves, which will greatly en- 
hance the importance of the city as a 
seaport. The designs of the archi- 
tect represent not merely the most 
convenient and commodious structures 
for the purpose intended, but in some 
instances form examples of artistic ex- 
teriors, which rank with the buildings 
of any city in America. It may be 
said that despite the great loss to the 
community, money has been forth- 
coming in generous amounts for pri- 
vate enterprises, but an illustration of 
the public spirit has been shown in 
the decision by ballot to increase the 
municipal debt to the extent of $6,000,- 
000 for the street improvements re- 
ferred to, the new dock system as well 
as more public schools, street paving 
and other betterments. Such has been 
the rate of progress in the fire-swept 
territory alone that fully seventy-five 
per cent of the total value of real es- 
tate destroyed is now represented in 
contracts which have been let or are 
nearing completion. 

In the case of Baltimore, Galveston 
and Jacksonville enough time has 
elapsed to demonstrate whether the 
determination of the people to over- 
come misfortune has been worth while. 
A brief review of the business of these 
communities is perhaps the best way 
of answering the question. Speaking 
generally, Galveston has become far 
more important as a seaport than ever 
before. Its position as a railroad cen- 
ter has been advanced, and it has re- 
covered all of the trade which it may 
have temporarily lost by reason of dis- 
aster. The city now has no less than 
sixty-one different lines of steamships 
plying to various domestic and for- 
eign ports, due principally to the rea- 
son that its harbor improvements have 
been of such extent, that nearly one 
hundred ocean going vessels can trans- 
fer cargo at its wharves at the same 
time. It has been connected with the 
leading marine cities of Great Britain 
and the continent by regular lines of 
vessels. It has retained its position as 
the principal cotton market of Texas, 

as well as the other agricultural prod- 
ucts, and the additions to its popula- 
tion have been such that its residents 
probably exceed the number recorded 
prior to the storm. While the expan- 
sion of Jacksonville from a commer- 
cial standpoint has not perhaps been 
as rapid as that of the Texas city, it 
has assumed such proportions that no 
doubt remains as to its complete re- 
covery, and the next census will proba- 
bly show a very considerable gain not 
only in population but in the statistics 
pertaining to mercantile trade, as well 
as foreign commerce and industry. 
For the time the wholesale trade of 
Baltimore, which has contributed so 
much to its wealth, was most seriously 
affected, since such an enormous 
amount of merchandise was destroyed. 
The Southern States have depended 
upon Baltimore for certain staples far 
more than any other city, and un- 
questionably the fire benefited its 
rivals to the extent of millions of dol- 
lars. Possibly the most activity has 
been shown by its merchants in their 
efforts to regain this trade. How far 
they have been successful is in part in- 
dicated also by its clearing house 
transactions. Even as far back as the 
month of October, 1904, they repre- 
sented nearly $109,000,000, a decrease 
of less than nine per cent compared 
with the previous year. For the first 
ten months of 1904, which included 
eight months after the fire, they 
amounted to over $900,000,000, alsd 
a decrease of less than nine per cent 
compared with the ten months of 1903. 
During the last three months very ap- 
preciable gain has been recorded and 
there is no question but what the ex- 
tent of business will greatly exceed 
that of any previous year, when the 
results of 1906 are compiled. 

We have ventured to assert that the 
recuperation of Baltimore, Galveston 
and Jacksonville form a remarkable 
proof of the stability of the Southern 
States. Had any other series of com- 
munities received a similar check to 
their progress, it is safe to say that 
they would have possibly worked out 
their own destiny as effectually. 
True, Baltimore has been called a rich 

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city, but New Orleans, Montgomery 
and Savannah may be classed with it 
in the proportion of wealth to popu- 
lation. Indeed, it is a question if the 
amount of money per capita in New 
Orleans does not exceed that of Balti- 
more. Galveston and Jacksonville 
have not exceeded many other cen- 
ters of population in the growth of 
their business. In fact, the latter is 
the smallest clearing house city in the 
South. Had Atlanta,Augusta, or Chat- 
tanooga, for example, been afflicted, 
the story of their recovery would have 
doubtless been a sequel to what has 
been recorded in this article. In 
short, the illustrations which have been 
mentioned have made it possible for 
the South to show to what extent it 
can bear extraordinary adversity. 

That the courage and the determina- 
tion of these Southern municipalities 
has been an object lesson to the nation 
at large, is already verified. The next 
great disaster following the visitation 
at Baltimore has but recently been 
recorded, when a city having many at- 
tributes in common with the Southern 
metropolis was nearly ruined through 
the combination of earthquake and fire. 
Those of the East who were so for- 
tunate as to visit San Francisco before 
the catastrophe in April last, will well 
remember the mildness of the climate, 
the brightness of the skies, the beauty 
and profusion of the flowers. And 
the city by the Golden Gate also had 
its door yards, its tree-lined boule- 
vards, bringing to the mind of the 

visitor scenes in such cities as Savan- 
nah, Mobile, New Orleans. And to 
increase the feeling that here was at 
least some of the Southland, though 
far away on the other side of the 
country, one noted the gayety, the 
courtesy, the hospitality of the people. 
But a few weeks have passed since 
San Francisco was turned into a city 
of desolation, yet already is another 
arising from its chaos. As in Balti- 
more and Jacksonville, before the em- 
bers had cooled, the work of rehabili- 
tation had begun, plans had been pre- 
pared for school, church, hall, factory, 
warehouse, office building on even a 
larger scale than before. Doubt no 
longer exists that the new city of St. 
Francis, like its sisters of the South, 
will rise from its ruins, greater and 
more beautiful even than ever before, 
for its citizens have before them the 
example of those who have also been 
afflicted, an example which has in- 
spired them to take courage, to forget 
the past and think only of the future. 
While the monetary loss is far more 
than has been suffered in any other 
civic disaster — aggregating far more 
than one hundred million dollars — 
such is the feeling of optimism, that, 
as already intimated, the structures re- 
placing those destroyed, will be costlier 
and in most cases larger. Already 
many contracts have been let and 
bankers, manufacturers and tradesmen 
are working shoulder to shoulder in 
the one great object, the restoration of 
the community. 

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By Horatio Lankford King 

THE Reverend Wilbert Jarnes, 
it may be surmised, had liter- 
ally thrust his head in the 
lion's mouth when he ven- 
tured within the precincts of Bear 
Creek Camp, a place now void of 
human habitation and where, in this 
day and time, the prowling coyotes are 
wont to hold their nocturnal revels 
even in the deserted shack of Elec 
Metts, which had once been the rough 
miner's "evil sanctum," standing a 
ghost of its former self and a reminder 
of the days of '72 at the crossing of 
the two trails near the Canon of Has- 
sayampa, Arizona, once famous for 
placer gold and a scant evidence of 
morality that infected the place. But 
though the Reverend Wilbert Jarnes 
was a little man, he was not a coward ; 
he was not one of your "finiky" gospel- 
mongers who preached after the man- 
ner of French etiquette, having a prop- 
er devoir for the mixed rascality and 
false piety of his congregations, but 
clung tenaciously to his convictions 
and thereby acquired many enemies. 
He had come to "spread the Gospel," 
presumably as the Lord had revealed 
it to him, and nothing but Death could 
swerve him from his purpose. So, 
when he made his sudden appearance 
in Hassayampa, also yclept Bear Creek 
Camp, and as boldly entered the por- 
tals of Elec Metts' saloon, it was with 
a placidity and serenity of countenance 
to stagger the vision of the redoubt- 
able Mr. Metts himself. After hav- 
ing deposited his dun-colored carpet- 
bag in the center of the floor and 
as placidly seating himself thereon, he 
proceeded to mop his thin, emaciated 
face with a red bandana kerchief 
which he primly drew from the 
creased tail of his black "preacher's 
coat ;" then placing on his thinner and 

more emaciated nose a pair of gold- 
rimmed glasses his pale washed grey 
eyes glanced from face to face with 
critical alertness. Meanwhile, the 
Overland stage, which had conveyed 
him hither, with that garrulous driver, 
Jim Sagus, on its roof, had lumbered 
on up the North Trail in a cloud of 
choking dust. 

Now the citizens of Hassayampa, 
viewing the Presence in startled and 
opprobrious silence, stirred out of 
their lethargic attitudes and scowled 
ominously. The situation was one 
which required their instant attention. 
The discerning eye of Avic Wells fore- 
saw the menace with prophetic clear- 
ness. The contingency was one to be 
immediately and strenuously opposed. 

"Ain't he purty," commented Avic 
Wells, nudging a drunken companion 
who blinked a pair of red and soporific 
eyes in acquiescence. " I jes' bet he's 
from Nantuck." 

" Ye reckon Nan tuck it? " drawled 
a local wit 

"They grows up thar, Avic; I've 
seed 'em." 

"On trees? My!" 

The little missionary listened and 
smiled in his little unobtrusive manner. 

" It's rather-er-warm," he ventured 
in a very thin and speculative voice. 
" Now in Boston such humidity would 
be conducive to " 

" Did you git that, Elec? It's from 
Borston, which is condoosive," and 
Avic Wells trailed off into a loud 
whoop and a seismic convulsion of 
mirth; then he brought himself to a 
sudden lurch and fixed his slit of an 
eye on the little unwelcome visitor 
with the concentration of mind and 
purpose of a hypnotist " Hot ? Well, 
I reckon ! But I've hear'n of it gittin' 
hotter 'n this fer some folks as kept 

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hangin' round hyere longer'n the next 
coach to Phoenix. Hey, Elec?" 

"That, my friend," responded Wil- 
bert Jarnes still in his little unobtru- 
sive manner, " was because